


envelop bones like new skin

by Mira_Jade



Series: And I Would See You Forged in Steel [6]
Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Established Relationship, F/M, Foreshadowing, Gen, Multi, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Prophesies and Visions and Dreams oh my!, Ragnarok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 117,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I trust my brother with my life,” and the words did not tremble, silver as they were upon his tongue. After a quest takes a turn for the worst, the real hunt begins in order to save one of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. from the hunt, the spoils

**Author's Note:**

> This piece started as a small and rather compact idea, but like most ideas do - it quickly spun out of control, so here we are now with chapters and everything. ;)
> 
> This story borrows heavily from Norse and Celtic mythology - and, by 'borrow', I mean that I have taken characters and stories, put them in a blender, and am now playing with the pieces as I see fit. Much artistic liberty has been taken - especially with Marvel's whole idea of Ragnarok, which is pretty much ignored here. (And, as always, there is a handy list of mythological references and explanations at the bottom of this.)
> 
> That said, for how meta this story can be at times, I hope it is - at its core - a fun adventure fic, and another slice of Sif and Loki's tale. Yes, this is meant to fit as another missing piece of my Steel!verse, BUT, reading that epic is not required, unless you are dreadfully curious about Loki and Sif's backstory as a couple.
> 
> That said, I do hope you enjoy reading this as much as I have enjoyed penning it.

>   
> 
> 
> _“and what you see are not shattered streets,  
>  but rather, within you, your own crushed walls,  
>  your frustrated infinity …”_
> 
> –Pablo Neruda, “Cataclysm, Part X”

The wind echoed coldly in the Hall of Éljúðnir.

Upon her throne, Death looked down at the weaving that Fate had given to her. Her eyes, old and ancient – older than all, even Birth - were shadowed, troubled as she looked over the tale that Skuld had to tell. The craftsmanship of the Nornir was intricate, and the weave in her hands was oddly soft in contrast to the events it told. In her other hand, she so held the cloth of the Queen of the Aesir; gifted to her in another time, another place. In her place in the sphere of time, she knew the cloth to be young, so young, and Death ached to remember the age she could count in the bones of her. She traced out the tale that the cloth told to her, the Twilight now familiar to her as her own name.

Soon, the tale would be one for her to tell.

The doors of her hall opened, grey against the black cast of her realm beyond; and then in came the Hound.

"My lady," said he, dropping to one knee before his mistress, his eyes finding the floor. In the polished obsidian stone, his face was a dark reflection. "The Mara speak of their sights. Their shadows have been summoned by the daughters of Mórrigan."

Death was very still at his words, her breath caught in her throat. When she looked up, the cloth in her hands billowed in the stiff wind that echoed in the hall. When she stood, her cloak fell to swirl about her feet, as if crafted from night itself; making the pale flash of her limbs starlight. Her bones seemed to ripple as she descended from her throne to her second, gently laying a thin hand upon his shoulder. The stiff lines of the Hound softened at her touch, knowing as he did the implications of his words.

When he looked up, his eyes on her own were heavy.

And Death smiled. "Then rejoice, for the Thunderer comes near."

.  
.

In the shadowed spaces of the Yggdrasil, there were worlds untouched by mortal and immortal both. These worlds - these planets, and moons, and broad, indefinable things were lost figures in space; in the very fabric of time itself. These worlds were whispers of light in the night sky, seen as insignificant from far away, known only by the shadows they cast. The skalds had their stories of such realms, and they sang their songs before the evening fires, their notes rising with the smoke to pierce the hidden realms above. And yet, their stories were always just so – _stories_ ; fanciful things meant to bewitch the mind during the magic of night, and yet always forgotten upon the morning hour.

Even so, the Lady Sif marveled, if such worlds did indeed exist, then this moon would surely be one of them. On a forgotten moon in Álfheimr's space, she stood with the princes two at the lip of a great and towering precipice. High upon a hollow carved into the mountains, the forest beneath them seemed to have yawned, opening itself up to a vast network of canyons within. The canyons sank deeply into the landscape, as if a great beast had taken its claws and rendered the face of the moon asunder. From the top of the canyons, hardy trees, darker than pitch, grew in sweeps towering waves against the rusty stone. The cries of hawks and more exotic fowl filled the air, echoing for miles across the rise of rock around them.

Loki had found a book describing the hidden moon in the vaults of the library – in the ancient rooms of texts that existed beneath what the rest of Asgard was permitted to see and take use of – some days before. The storerooms had spells upon spells in their depths, meant to keep away the unwelcome - but Loki had long since learned how to unravel such things, and each ward that the the mages set stronger Loki managed to untangle time and time again. Eventually, Sif thought in amusement, they would simply stop trying altogether.

Indeed, this was not the first time in which Loki had found a volume of lore detailing a lands blind to the eyes of the Aesir, and Thor knew from experience that his brother's finds often led to the most glorious of battles and victories. Sometimes, Sif wondered why the bards didn't simply just watch with Heimdall in order to pen their songs as their adventures unfolded, so many they seemed to be at times.

It was rare when Loki cautioned them away from a land, as he had tried to do with this moon. And yet, even his brother's warnings were not enough to throw Thor from the path of the hunt once he had his feet set upon it.

"There," Thor had stabbed a meaty finger against the maps in the center of the book. "We shall make our journey there."

Loki had sighed, long suffering, had but not argued any further when Thor had not taken heed to his original protests. Sif herself had been silent with her thoughts, for follow she would and always shall – wherever their path would take her.

After Thor had left the vaults, Loki had spent the next four candlemarks pouring over the texts and showing her his findings. The language that detailed the moon they were to travel to was an old one, mirroring the ancient Celtic tongues of Midgard more than any tongue of the Aesir. In some ways, the languages bore much in common – as the two races were kindred in more ways than one – but the core structure aside, most of the tongue was unreadable. And with such things, when most of the volume was written in riddle, an exact translation was necessary for a full understanding of the words within.

A true translation would be lost to them at any rate – the language was a dead one, for humanity had lost its belief in things higher than them long ago, and such tongues had been forgotten with that time. And yet, Sif enjoyed trying to recreate the language with the second son – she was no academic help, but she was a sounding board as he rolled off ancient vowels and syllables – some of the texts were so archaic and guarded that spells were needed just to make the pages visible, and the words understandable.

When Loki would fall into his silences, absorbed with his reading, his mind working on a plane higher than she could reach – Sif simply leaned back into their alcove, and took to sharpening her dagger. The table that Loki had covered in scrolls and books already bore many a rut within the wood from where her restless blade had found purchase time and time again throughout the years before.

Two mornings later, they made their journey to the lost moon - a place where even Heimdall had to unveil his vision to see. The path before them was one that had not been traveled as such in the centuries before them – and would not be touched for years long after.

And with all of the natural splendor around them, Loki had yet to tear his eyes away from the book in his hands – borrowed so from the library's vaults to aid them on their journey.

"Brother," Thor finally took to tease his second, "you miss all around you with your nose in that book."

"Forgive me for not wanting to trapeze so lightly through an untraveled realm," Loki muttered in his defense. "If you had left me enough time to properly translate the words in the first place -"

" - if Ragnarök had come in the time that you spent reading," Thor struck his brother in return.

Loki raised a brow, just visible over the top of the tome he held. A moment later, Thor's next step was thrown when the root he had been stepping over raised as if lifted by an unseen hand. The prince stumbled, but did not loose his stride, instead slanting cross eyes back at his brother. "That was petty," Thor declared.

"Do not blame me for your tangled feet," Loki protested, ever innocent. "My nose was buried in my book – as you have noted." Neatly, he sidestepped the swing that Thor took at his arm – for the other had no qualms about openly striking once offense was taken, and Loki dodged the blow with practiced ease.

Sif rolled her eyes at the two, but did not intervene, her eyes instead taking in the way that the canyon around them narrowed, the high walls curving in sweeping arches of stone and slanting down to encompass the path before them like ribs over a heart.

There were markings embedded into the curving stone, ancient things that Sif could not read. As they passed, the words seemed to hum with a life of their own – a power to them that she could not precisely describe.

"Can you read these, brother?" Thor asked, serious now.

Loki put aside his book, flicking her hand so that the tome disappeared in a wave of smoke and shadow until he would call for it again. He narrowed his eyes as he took in the markings, and said, "It is the same tongue that the book used."

"And what does that tongue say?" Thor asked.

Loki glanced to his brother. "A moment please, I am not quite sure."

Thor raised a brow. "A few runic symbols, past even you?"

"As I said," Loki murmured, "we took this journey with premature haste. There is much about this tongue to still learn."

Thor huffed out a deep sigh of air, disgruntled, but he did not push further.

Seeing that the other would let him be for the moment, Loki stepped forward to read the inscription at the base of one of the curving stones. His eyes traced up and over the arch, deciphering the patterns that appeared as gibberish to Sif and Thor both.

"It speaks of a promise," Loki said aloud. "A prize to those worthy, and a curse to those unworthy."

Thor gave a sharp smile. "A promise indeed."

Loki snorted. "Leave it to you to only hear what I first said."

"Positive thinking, you shall find that it does one wonders," Thor slapped Loki on the back, pitching the slighter man forward. Loki raised a dark brow, his thoughts clear upon his face. But, for once, he gave no word to them.

"It says what of a curse?" Sif took it upon herself to ask. While Thor held thunder and battle in his veins, she held war – and the strategy of lines and men was as important as the strength of arms.

Loki looked back to the arch. "That is what I am trying to make out. It is as if the whole of the message is not here, it is incomplete."

Thor took a step forward into the stretch of the canyon that the rune protected. "Most likely it was posted as an empty threat – a warning to those who would walk within."

Loki shook his head. "No, there is magic within these runes. There is no empty threat." He reached out to touch the stone, and at his touch the letters flushed a soft and telling gold – not the mark of Loki's magic, but a sign of that which had been laid before.

Loki looked up then, his pale eyes sharp and verdant. "We should not be here," he said lowly, his voice an echo in his throat.

As if his words had summoned forth a great and terrible foe, the land around them rumbled. A low, thundering sound rendered the air – as if an eagle had called from deep in a lion's throat. At the sound, Sif let her hand fall over the hilt of her glaive. Her shield was loose and ready at her back.

Thor had Mjölnir out, arms held slightly open – as if inviting the foreign foe closer.

"That would be what I meant about not being here," Loki lamented, stepping away from the runic words, and letting his hand fall to his throwing blades.

"Nonsense," Thor said, his eyes charged and bright. "This is precisely what we came here for."

Loki heaved a deep sigh, but nonetheless drew his throwing knives. "Oh goody," he mumbled under his breath.

Sif braced her weight on the balls of her feet, feeling the dry earth crumble beneath her boots. She breathed in deep, centering herself.

Over the lip of the canyon, small, dark forms appeared at the edge of their line of sight. They were winged, holding themselves up on the air.

"Hippogryphs?" Sif questioned, surprised. For, out of everything that she could have seen on the moon, this would have been the last thing that she would have expected.

"So it would seem," Loki confirmed her sight.

Sif's hand on her blade stilled as she studied the animals. The creatures before them were magnificent. The mares, she had seen back in Asgard. Select warriors who had proven their worth and embarked upon the Quest of Proof to earn the right to have such a mount had hippogryph steeds to ride in battle. For all intents and purposes, they were simply winged horses – the rare product of a gryphon stallion and a broodmare horse; and as such they were symbols of the impossible. The sacred blessings of chance – proof that nature could and always would find a way.

They were creatures of magic, ethereal, said to aid only the purest warriors in battle. And, after seeing such a collective herd of them, Sif could believe the myth. The mares were all brilliantly colored animals – chestnuts and bays and roans, their coats gleaming with a splendor that not even the finest of Asgard's warhorses could match. Near the head of the herd, there was a dappled gray that caught Sif's eye, and for a moment she found herself hard pressed to look away.

"I thought such things to be extinct," Sif said, her awe seeping into her voice. For it had been centuries indeed since a warrior of the Aesir had taken a new mount into Asgard's ranks. And the few mounts who remained to the veteran warriors, yet to be claimed by Valhalla, were all female. It had been thought impossible to replenish what they had lost so carelessly.

"Life has a curious way around such tittles, at times," Loki said lowly, his eyes a pale slash in the shadows of his face. Sif let her gaze rest on him for a moment before looking back to the creatures.

"And these are what the moon is protecting?" Thor said, his question a statement as he looked past the mares to the fearsome creatures who were guarding them.

While the mares were easy, lovely creatures – the stallions were fearsome things, and unlike any hippogryph Sif had ever seen. Where the mares only held the wings declaring their mystical heritage, the stallions had twin horns sweeping up from the top of their heads, dark and curving, nicks and scratches on the bone to show where they had been put to use before. Their faces were long, but instead of bearing the muzzle of a horse, they bore instead their gryphon heritage – boating of sharp and pointed beaks that could easily tear flesh from bone. Eagle feathers grew at their faces, colored so to match the fur covering the rest of their body. Where their forelegs were slender and deceivingly delicate looking – as a horse – rather than hooves, they bore paws - the lion-like claws of a gryphon.

The alpha of the small herd – a fierce and darkly shaded creature – had stepped forward, pawing at the ground and laying his ears back flat against his head. A rumble of a growl was in his throat, more bestial than the neighs of the mares behind them.

Thor had yet to look away from the stallion, his lips drawing back from his teeth as he returned the challenge.

Loki glanced from the creature to the arches of stone above. The ancient symbols seemed to glow in the presence of the hippogryphs, softly warning. He frowned. "Brother, you need not take such a trophy from these creatures," he said quietly. "They will let us pass if we mean no harm."

Thor smiled then, the curve of it reflecting the hunt. "Nay brother, the horns on the stallion – they would make a fitting gift for the Allfather, would they not? Imagine, even, how they would look set upon a helmet."

Loki snorted, his eyes pausing on the tall sweep of the horns before falling away. "And here I always thought you to be so fetching in your feathers."

Thor smirked. " _You_ have yet to settle on a design . . ."

Loki snorted. "Your thoughtfulness is overwhelming," he said dryly. "But I truly need no such consideration. Come now, let us pass."

Thor still stood battle ready. "You may pass, but I intend to give the creature the fight he is looking for."

Thor dug his heels into the ground, as if to charge, and above them the symbols flashed. Loki started as soon as soon as the magic of the moon swelled in warning, and he lunged after Thor, "Brother, wait!"

He was not quick enough. Thor took off at a run, surprisingly fast for the sheer mass of him. In his hand, Mjölnir rumbled with his challenge.

"Something is not right here!" Loki insisted on a shout, just as Thor met the stallion.

The mares had taken to flight the moment Thor started his charge, their great wings raising them in the sky to safely shield them higher up on the canyon walls. The stallions – five of them - stayed low to battle the prince who confronted them – not daring to take to the skies lest they let Thor closer to the rest of their pack.

Sif ran forward to rap her knuckles across the metal armor peeking through Loki's cloak. "Your brother will not see peace, so choose now whether or not you are going to give your aid." And with that, she joined the fight.

Loki watched her move for a moment – steel glinting in the high sun, and then joined her as well.

They had fought winged creatures before – had faced dragons, and gryphons, and harpies, and once had even faced a mad phoenix ready for her rebirth. The scarlet bird that had risen from the ashes had been a breathtaking, beautiful vision in flame – Sif could remember the flare of her still.

And yet these were different – they were quicker than gryphons, and yet they had to move in close to attack, unlike a dragon who could fight just as easy from afar. Instead of fur on their backs, they bore almost metallic scales that were impervious to Thor's hammer, or her glaive. The soft parts of their bellies were hard to reach due to razor wings and wickedly clawed forelegs, and Sif bit her lip as she tucked and rolled, trying to do her best to get underneath one of the stallions without being trampled for her efforts.

Smaller than gryphons, these creatures fought quickly and deadly. Their wings afforded them sharp bursts of height and speed, and slanted dives made their movements hard to predict, keeping the Aesir more on the defensive rather than the attack. Sif found herself watching their muscles, gleaming at their withers and at the base of their wings for their direction – reading the way their feathers swept with the wind's current, and moved her body to match them so accordingly.

Thor had tired of playing a game of seek and chase, and so he now stood his ground, swatting with Mjölnir whenever the creature came close enough for him to strike. Storms loitered at his hands – in his eyes - and at his cry, lightening crashed about his hammer as he threw it. The weapon had the stallion he was facing hurling backwards, great wings flapping to counter the force of the Thunderer's blow. The creature hit the side of the canyon wall, and the force of its landing loosening the side of the rock – the arches above shivered, and then fell, the cascade of rock and dirt threatening to bury the combatants below.

In the center of the melee, Loki was not fighting the creatures so much as he half heartedly had a defensive shield glowing green about him whenever one of the stallions came too close. He had rushed forward to examine the fallen stone from Thor's blow. The marks upon the arches now glowed an obvious gold – enchanted beyond a doubt. The mares higher on the canyon wall were neighing wildly, and at their whinny's, the golden symbols pulsed.

Seeing that Thor was easily handling three of the stallions. Sif came to protect Loki's back as the other two circled in around them. Her glaive was held further out than her shield; the gold of it a burning flame that had the stallions pacing warily before facing her. It was an easy post for her – for Thor never shared the glory of battle, often standing on his own as his companions fought in clusters. Sif knew Loki at her back, and at her side, and there was no one she moved more truly with in a melee.

"The stones say something about the brood of Macha. These creatures are protected," Loki said on a hiss.

Sif raised a brow, twisting her head back to look Loki over her shoulder. "By the stallions?"

"No – by something else. Something bigger."

Sif smirked. "Won't Thor be pleased."

Thunder crashed. The creatures returned the sound with cries of their own. A match.

One of the stallions dared to come in close, and Sif struck out with her glaive in retaliation. The steel of it skidded across the scaled back, and she twisted her hand hard to the left, hoping to tear at its wings. But the creature was quicker, depriving her of her hit as it pranced away from her.

Sif took a step forward, and bared her teeth.

It backed from her, but it was still circling – looking for an angle to attack her from; and she waited for it, not leaving Loki's back as he passed his hand over the arches. He had now reached out and touched the stone, the magic of his touch making more symbols appear.

"If you are through _reading_ ," Sif finally said sharply. Her steel flashed as the great wings opposite her threw a breath of wind against her face, sending her cloak billowing. "I could make use of your knives."

Thunder crackled above them. Thor's shouts were even louder than the storm, and she heard a pained cry from the creatures beyond. The battlelust in her veins pitched a fevered song at the sound of it.

"If you could hold your thirst for blood for a mere moment, my lady," Loki returned, distracted. "The text is revealing itself." The more magic he expelled, the more the symbols came into view, telling a whole story where only snippets had been known before.

"I could just leave your back unprotected," she pointed out, her words not quite a threat as her lips curved up cruelly. Again, she stepped forth to meet the claws of the first stallion. A spin, and her shield knocked away the beak of the second from above.

"Indeed, you could," Loki agreed.

"And yet, to have to tell the Allfather that his second son fell in battle due to the fact that he could not tear his eyes away from his letters . . . It would destroy his queen's heart."

"One can only imagine the songs the bards will sing of my bravery at such an ignoble end."

"The Silvertongue felled by his faulty eyes," Sif continued, her taunt lost to her as the second stallion turned from the crest of his dive in order to strike again. Sif heaved upwards with her shield, feeling the force of both of the creature's claws wrapping around her shield in order to lift her from the ground. She still kept her grip, ignoring the distance that was put between her and the canyon floor as she extended the reach of her glaive, sweeping wide in order to strike at the tender flesh of the beast's stomach. Her blade struck true, but the truly mean blow was made glancing by the back hooves of the creature. Her steel rang in her hand at the blow, almost jarred away from her. But her grip was strong, and she refused to relinquish her hold even as the creature dropped her and she fell to hit the ground below.

She skidded in the dirt, tucking in her roll in order to pop back up on her feet. The first stallion had busied himself attacking Loki's shield while she had been distracted with the second, and with a war cry upon her lips, she launched herself at the creature, determined to throw it off its hunt. She was able to scramble atop its back, and it was more interested then in bucking her from her seat rather than break down Loki's defenses.

The hippogryph took to the sky then, determined to loose her. Sif scrambled for the dagger at her hip, clumsy as she was with her glaive at so close a range.

"Loki!" she exclaimed when, beneath her, the other stallion had taken to battering at Loki's shield where its second had given up. The creature was butting angrily at the verdant dome with its horns, and there was magic within the being – for Loki's shield did not fall to so slight a strength so easily.

Loki hissed, and the sphere around him brightened, throwing the animal away from him. He glanced up at her, and upon seeing her predicament, he dropped the shield entirely, turning away from the stones in order to aid her. Her glaive was kept from making any true progress due to flashing horns and mean teeth, but the creature had forgotten about Loki down below.

She braced herself as she saw the hit coming, ready to jump from the stallion as soon as one of Loki's knives was loosed, the dagger a shade of spring so bright that it left its streak across the air as it traveled. It ripped into the hippogryph's wings, staying it from its flight.

He did not make a fatal blow, she thought as she landed on the ground below. Dumbfounded.

Sif blinked as she got to her feet, processing as she held her glaive out before her. The two stallions were watching she and Loki warily, pacing but not engaging them. The latter one was nursing a torn wing, and her mind played over a dozen ways to get under its defenses with such a wound.

She came to Loki's back, falling into a defensive pose with him out of habit.

"Why did you not slay it?" Sif hissed. "You had your chance."

"Because these creatures are not ours to kill."

Her eyes narrowed. "You are not one to lament the loss of life."

He smiled, and it was very sharp – a fine edge made to cut. "Indeed not. But these creatures are protected – they are creatures of the quest, and we have not earned the right to slay one."

She raised a brow, questions on her tongue that she stowed as Loki made an urgent glance to find his brother. Thor was still facing the other three, and the sky above him was a violent thing in response to his battlerage. Loki looked worried when he saw the creatures fading – tiring against the Thunderer. They would not last much longer.

"Thor cannot spill blood today," he murmured to her, his eyes very green as they flared with magic. "Thor!" he shouted. "Stay your weapon! Cease your attack!"

The thunder crackled around them, ominous and booming – Thor's answer.

Cross then, Loki narrowed his eyes, and then he vanished from her side in a wisp of smoke. He appeared in Thor's shadow, collapsing the distance between them as easily as Sif drew breath. He appeared right in the path of Thor's charge, stopping Thor from his run.

Mjölnir was raised.

"Brother!" she could read Loki's lips across the canyon floor.

The stallions stayed, waiting. In the canyons above them, the mares were a symphony of whinny's and neighs. She darted a glance up at them. As Loki had ordered, she held a defensive pose before the wary stallions, but she did not move to engage them.

Loki held his hands out, his mouth worked quickly; and she could see Thor grow more and more annoyed at his brother's words. He tried to move around Loki, but the second son still blocked his path.

Above her, the sky rolled – a warning. Her hands tightened about the hilt of her weapon out of reflex.

Slowly, Loki's hands fell, and she thought him triumphant with reasoning with Thor through his battle-haze. The lines of Loki unraveled, the stallions stilled.

And then Thor turned, Mjölnir glowing with the heart of the storms as she aided her wielder.

"Thor, you _idiot_ ," she heard Loki's voice quite clearly across the canyon floor.

Mjölnir struck true, and there was a deathly stillness to the canyon as the stallion fell. It was a gust of breath across the canyon – the mares fell silent, and the stallion's brethren tossed their heads in agitation, the whites of their eyes showing as they took to the sky.

Thor watched them leave, but did not give chase. "It seems I would have my trophy after all," Thor said, insufferably pleased with himself.

Sif crossed over to the princes as the air swirled around them, charged in a way that was not a result of Thor's storms.

"You fool," Loki hissed. "We must leave – now, before it is discovered what you have done."

"What I have done is to earn another memento of our victories to grace the Allfather's halls." Thor smirked, withdrawing his blade from his belt.

"You do not understand," Loki placed his hand on Thor's arm, pushing the other away from the felled creature.

Thor narrowed his eyes. "You are acting very peculiar."

"And you are acting thicker than usual," Loki snapped.

Thor knelt down besides the stallion's still body. "You are too tense. We fought, we made the name of Odin proud with our valor. And now – a prize."

Sif shook her head, the dark ends of her bound hair trailing wildly. "Thor, perhaps you should listen! All does not feel right here," she was still in a defensive stance, her glaive tight in the palm of her hand.  


Thor looked to her, his clear eyes clouded over in bafflement at the serious tones of his companions. And yet, further talk was stilled when around them the air swirled as if possessed. The sun overhead – just now peaking back through from Thor's clouds, was shadowed again, but this time by an unnatural blackness. Even though Sif had no connection to magic, she could feel it on the air – could taste it on her tongue.

"Who has struck the brood of Macha?" a coarse voice thundered around them.

"And that is why we should have departed," Loki sighed, resigned.

The Aesir turned to see three woman approaching from the mouth of the canyon. Seemingly appearing from the echo in the air, rather then by any conventional means of travel. The one leading the three wore the rough linen of a herder, and she held a long, hooked staff in her hand, the wood of it well worn from time and many hands holding it. Her coloring was severe – she was as pale as the snow as it fell, and her hair was a dark shade of red that she had bound back into a severe bun. There was an elegance to her to counter her simple appearance – an ancientness to her eyes that instinctively had Sif wish to take to one knee in a bow.

As War, she could feel the resonance of steel about the woman, and she did not take the sheathed sword at the other's side for granted.

This woman was dangerous.

At the leading woman's side, the other two were fiery haired as well. The one to the right had a flush of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and angry green eyes – she wore the slim armor of a cavalry soldier, and there was a riding crop at her hip along with her quiver and greatbow. The third was a dark, shadowed woman, her eyes raven black – she wore the thick and heavy armor of a foot soldier. Her countenance was almost deadened, as if she had left her soul upon the battlefield and not bothered to retrieve it once left behind.

There was a hard smile upon Thor's expressive face as he stood, the edges of his eyes sharp. "It is the son of Odin who has taken his hunt today."

The second woman snorted. "Prince or not, you have struck at that which is held sacred!" her voice was a deep and pained thing, an echo of the stallion's dying scream.

Loki, tense at the side of Thor, pushed past his brother. "And whom was this pack protected by? I must admit that we are foreigners here, and any offense made we shall surely seek to remedy."

"Ignorance can excuse much, but not all," the first woman rebuked softly, not put at ease by Loki's silvered words. "You may call me Anann – of the Mórrigan, the brood you struck at was that of Macha, my sister."

The second woman – Macha – stepped forward, her eyes angry upon the prince. "These souls were mine, and you have not earned the right to approach one – let alone take a life."

"Macha takes her duties seriously," Anann said with a thin smile. "And yet, it has been a long time since the Allfather has sent a warrior our way. He has not had one worthy enough in almost four centuries time. Tell me now, Thor Odinson, why have you not abided by the rules of engagement? How have you sought us out without being sent to Quest by your father?"

Thor blinked, surprised at Anann's familiarity with his father. By his side, Loki was less surprised – for he never took lightly his father's secrets. "It was a book which led us here, a tome in the depths of Asgard's halls. We followed its riddles and its map – hoping for sport, which my brother believed he had found free of slight."

Anann looked at him, weighing him. At her side, the third woman gave a low and reedy laugh. Her voice was like sand, blown by the wind. "We have felt this one for many years, sister. It is not surprising that he should be the one to see through the wards shielding us."

"And he was not completely ignorant as to the purpose of our wards," Anann said thoughtfully. "Tell me, second son, what little of our runes could you translate?"

"Not much," Loki said carefully. "Only the lines speaking of a promise – of a prize, or a curse."

"A prize," Anann said, "given to those worthy."

At this, Thor puffed out his chest. "And who more worthy to take such a token from your herd? If worth is the problem, I fail to see the slight."

"Such worth must be proven," Macha scathed. "And few are the warriors who survive our trials to prove such a thing."

Thor's eyes narrowed, and Loki stepped in. "A quest," he said. "If these are Questing creatures, as you say, please, allow us to do so to prove our worthiness for the life Thor took."

Anann looked at him, weighing her words.

And at his side, Thor shook his head. "No, this is ridiculous. I am son of the Allfather, and any creature in the Nine Realms is in my domain, with my right to hunt. You should be bowing before me as we speak – I need not seek your permission, or seek to ease your anger over a life rightly felled."

Loki raised his eyes heavenward, as if to seek long suffering. Sif sucked in a breath between her teeth, her hand clenching about the hilt of her glaive.

"He proves his worth already, does he not, sister?" Macha smirked.

"Indeed he does," Anann whispered. Her tone was thoughtful as she stepped away from her sisters, stepping right before Thor before turning, slowly circling the prince. In size, Thor dwarfed her, but her gaze seemed to swallow him. Thor was tiny in the shadow she cast, drawn deep from the soul of the moon.

When Sif turned to glance at Loki, his eyes were verdant, reflecting the unconscious pulse of Anann's power. She let herself gaze for a moment longer, before turning to her sovereign once more.

"Here are my final words to you, Odinson," Anann finally came to her decision, stopping her in her circle before Thor once more, striking the dry ground with her sheppard's hook. "You may take our challenge, and prove your worth. If not - you were not worthy to fight, let alone slay a creature made to be a prize rather than a warrior's token. And as such, you will live as an unworthy one until your worth is proved." Her voice was ancient, thick with prophesy.

Thor's expression thundered, his hand tightened over Mjölnir's handle. Instinctively, Sif stepped forward, recognizing the tell-tale signs of violence on the features of her friend. From next to her, Loki's hand stayed her.

Anann held up a hand, halting him "Your father," she whispered, her voice deep and old, "is the one who begot us with this right. You shall find no sympathy from his quarter, not the Allfather's memory is as long and as wise as it should be. And so, I wish you well sons of Odin," her eyes flickered to Sif, "daughter of War." And then the three faded from sight as quickly as they had came.

In their absence, the air around them seemed to lose is warmth. There was a sudden loss of pressure as the magic of the land quieted and stilled.

Loki looked positively furious, angry at his brother for ruining the words that would have let them return back to Asgard without any negative repercussions.

Thor was wisely silent for a long moment, Sif glancing between the brothers and reading the silence that dwelt there. Finally: "A curse," Thor said carefully. "That does not sound too terrible."

Loki narrowed his eyes crossly at his brother. "Just you think that, Thor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness**
> 
> Note: I am far from an expert on Norse paganism, and all mistakes are mine own. ;)
> 
>  **Hippogryphs** : In legend, they were indeed the offspring of a gryphon and a mare – beautiful creatures who are symbols of impossibility and love. Sightings of them were as rare as the creatures themselves (for horses are normally a food source for gryphons), but when tamed they make an excellent steed. I took the idea of them from legend and then kind of ran with everything – most notably the appearance of the stallions. Artistic liberty, I tell you.
> 
>  **The Mórrigan** : A Celtic trio of war goddesses.
> 
>  **Anann** : A warrior goddess of fertility, cattle (in the sense of culling the weak warriors from the 'herd'), and prosperity, and was known for comforting and teaching the dying soldiers upon the battlefield. Sometimes she is actually called Mórrigan herself, for she is the center of their three fold cord.
> 
>  **Macha** : A war goddess who saw to war horses. Her name means 'of the plain', and she was based off of the real figure in Irish history – Macha, the bride of Cruinniuc. She is comparable with the Welsh goddess Rhiannon.
> 
>  **Badb** : A war goddess who took the form of a crow, and was thus sometimes known as _Badb Catha_ ("battle crow"). She often caused fear and confusion among soldiers in order to move the tide of battle to her favoured side. Badb would also appear prior to a battle to foreshadow the extent of the carnage to come or to predict the death of a notable person. She would sometimes do this through wailing cries, leading to comparisons with the bean-sidhe.


	2. your curse to bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for your feedback! AO3 seems to be having a bug with the reply boxes, and so here is a general thanks. You all are gorgeous, beautiful people. ;)

Even in the time it took them to return to Asgard, it became apparent that something was not right.

It happened as soon as they landed on the other side of the bifröst. As the great rush of time and space released them, Loki and Sif landed easily with a lightness born of hundreds such trips taken before. Thor was not so fortunate, the mass of him being thrown violently forward by the bridge's power, and landing ignobly on his face. There was a violent crack in the air, loud in the silence of the quieting bridge, and all looked on stunned when they saw that the circles highest on Thor's armor had cracked.

"Thor Tanglefeet," Loki teased, a dark cast to his eyes as he helped his brother to his feet.

"Loki Tangletongue," Thor scathed back, smoothing himself out and trying to hide how disgruntled he was by his uncustomary gracelessness.

Sif rolled her eyes at both as she peered at Thor's cracked armor. It was odd and rare that such a stumble should shatter a dwarfish cast of steel. The force of his fall and the angle of his landing would have to be just so – a chance of one within millions. "It is unfortunate, but I think it can be repaired easily enough," she hazarded to guess.

Thor made a face. "And how the sons of Ivaldi will chuckle to know how the steel came to harm."

Sif smiled wryly, "Say that it was damaged in battle. Use my name – I shall claim the injury with pride."

"On second thought, it was an unfortunate stumble that caused the crack."

Loki did not look as amused as his companions. And Heimdall's silent and unblinking gaze on them all unsettled him as he wondered at how much of their journey the Gatekeeper had seen through the mists shadowing the Questing Moon.

"Thor," he started carefully. "The Mórrigan spoke of a curse. Such things should not be taken so lightly."

Thor snorted. "As if their magic could bind me. Their threats were as empty as their anger, my brother."

"Of course," Loki said, his voice hollow without sincerity to lend it weight and form. His pale eyes were fixed upon Thor's every move.

Sif elbowed past him, hoping to sooth the worry that knotted at his brow. Her smile drew his gaze for a moment, familiar upon the curve of her mouth. "You worry too much, second son."

"And the first not enough by far," Loki returned.

Sif caught his eye, uneasy with the worry there as they left the circular chamber of the Gatekeeper to where their horses were waiting on the bridge of the bifröst beyond. Sif hopped easily up upon her mare's back, patting the great roan neck affectionately. The horse pranced at the hum of so much elemental magic pulsing beneath her hooves, and Sif made nonsense noises in the back of her throat to sooth her.

Beside her, Loki donned his bay mount as well, his eyes careful upon Thor the whole time. Thor was the last to mount, checking the straps of the saddle before swinging one powerful leg up and over. As soon as his weight was upon the stirrup, the saddle slipped completely, throwing his balance off and causing him to fall backwards and land heavily upon the bridge. Þjálfi spooked at the uncustomary slip from his rider, and reared up at the sensation of the saddle falling loose, his flashing hooves a danger to Thor while he was still stunned upon the ground.

Quickly, Loki dismounted in order to calm the great white stallion, his voice full with an echo of his magick in order to sooth the animal's spirit. The horse still nickered loudly, clearly displeased as Thor got to his feet, his face flushed at his mishap.

Sif raised a brow, reigning her own mare to hold her steady. "Þjálfi is not one to hold his breath for the saddle," she said carefully. Some horses were known to exhale while the tack was fastened around their bellies, so that once they breathed normally the saddle sat loose upon them. Many a novice rider had fallen flat on their back to such a tactic – but Þjálfi was a seasoned warhorse, and Thor was no green rider.

Thor looked to her, while Loki narrowed his eyes. "Do you still not believe in curses, brother?"

Thor glared. "I was merely remiss in checking the straps. I was distracted, and payed the price."

"Indeed," Loki let his brother his falsehood.

"It was nothing more," Thor insisted.

"Undoubtedly," Loki agreed in a wicked tone.

Thor sniffed, offended. But he was careful the next time he attempted to get upon Þjálfi's back. The horse stood very still, and Thor stayed in the saddle for a moment before daring to move forward – no doubt not entertaining the thought of another fall so close to the edges of the bridge. Then, as soon as he was sure all was secure, he gave a great cry, and prompted Þjálfi forth at a sharp canter, no doubt eager to loose the tension of before.

Loki held back a moment, his eyes finding hers and reflecting his concerns before Sif shrugged her shoulders and followed Thor. As always, Loki was right besides her.

They made it to the stables with little more mishap, and Thor handed Þjálfi over to his groom as if the reins burned in his hands. Almost immediately, Thor took his leave of them, no doubt wishing to leave and lick his wounds in private. Sif and Loki bid him a good evening, and promised to see him in the training ring at first light the next day.

Sif let a groom take her mare, but followed Loki deeper into the stables as he led his steed. He didn't trust the grooms to care for Röskva properly, and he often saw to her himself after any excursion. He had always had an affinity to the animals – whether as a result of the shapeshifter in him, or the natural bond he bore with the elemental arts, she knew not.

And really, she thought that he just enjoyed the excuse to happen by Sleipnir's stall as often as he could. The eight legged stallion whinnied happily upon seeing the second son, pressing his chest against the half door of his stall in order to hold his massive head as close to Loki as he could while the prince tended to his own mount. The clicks and puffs of air that Loki used to communicate with both of the animals was different than the nonsense sounds of the grooms, and as always Sif stood back and enjoyed the odd bond he held with the animals.

She stepped closer to Sleipnir's stall, and fought to keep the smile from her face when the stallion swung his head to her, his ears pointed forward in interest. She feigned innocence, seeing his nostril's widen as he scented the air around her. He nickered impatiently, striking his first set of hooves restlessly against the straw. His eyes were wide and green, unlike any horse she had ever seen, his stare uncanny from the deeply shadowed tones of him – demanding as they latched knowingly onto her.

"Fine, you win," Sif finally sighed. Loki raised a brow as she brought out the sugar cubes that she had in a pocket at her belt. She raised a brow, daring him to say anything as she gave Sleipnir his customary treat – her own way of staying in the mischievous horse's good graces.

As Sleipnir munched happily, she walked over to where Loki was caring for Röskva. She picked up a thin comb, and started to brush out the mare's mane while Loki set about running a curry comb over her body. They worked easily together, the routine an old one between them. Loki's brow was creased in thought, and she let him have his silences, knowing that he would share his thoughts when ready.

Finally he said, "Thor is going to have to return to take the challenge if he hopes to break his curse."

"So, we are not believing in unfortunate coincidence?" she gave the option halfheartedly.

Loki snorted. "I sincerely doubt it. The Mórrigan brimmed with seiðr, and their threat was not empty. And they were within their right to blight him so – Thor was foolish to take up his hunt in a warded land."

Sif frowned, troubled. "Is there another way?" she asked. She had never heard of the Mórrigan, and she had never heard of the warriors of her acquaintance going to Quest against them. Such a lapse troubled her.

Loki sighed. "I shall return to my texts to see so, but I do doubt it. At any rate, I will find out all I can about the Mórrigan to aid Thor when the time to meet their challenge does come."

She saw the glint in his eyes – the curiosity and thirst for knowledge that often paralleled perfectly with his mischief. A smile touched her lips at the look, knowing that she would lose him to the depths of the library for the foreseeable future.

"Am I to take it that I shall be sleeping alone tonight?" she let himself tease, bumping against Loki as he moved to reach a spot high upon Röskva's back.

"I do wish to get to my readings as quickly as possible. Time is normally a factor in such things," he answered her.

She heaved a mock sigh. "Again I am passed over for dusty old scrolls. So many nights you choose your tomes over me – it is enough to give a lady a complex."

"If only you were not so very easy to read yourself – perhaps then my attention would not stray so easily."

Sif let out a breath between her teeth as she smiled, poking Loki's arm with the sharp wire of her brush. "Watch your words, Odinson," she threatened on a light and easy tone. "I am not above using a heavy hand to keep your attention where it ought to be."

"Such promises," Loki had stilled in his task in order to fix the whole of his gaze upon her. Already close enough to share his shadow, she slipped easily into the arm he wrapped around her. There was something almost dangerous about his hold, and she tasted copper and steel when she stepped on the tips of her toes to kiss him. He smelled of magic and the smoke of the bifröst still, and his hands were a warm weight though the barrier of her armor, still battle scuffed and dusted.

She felt his pulse leap when she nipped at his lower lip. With a gentleness few would attribute to her, she soothed at the wound with her tongue, easy and lazy as she twined herself so around him. She felt his breath hitch against her own, just once, and at the telltale sign, she pulled away, her smirk worn deep in her eyes.

"Enjoy your books, my lord," she ducked from his arms, sidestepping his playful attempt to catch her again. There was a smile on his face, bright and easy, and she took a moment to remember the look – all to often as of late, such smiles were few and far between on the second prince, and she cherished each and every one as hers.

Across the aisle, Sleipnir heaved a snort at their antics, too punctuated to be a mere coincidence. When she glanced across to the stallion, his whinny sounded almost like laughter. Shaking her head in bemusement, she marched from the stables, thoughts of curses and dark enchantments lost to her in turn for the chance to be out of her armor and in the softness of her own bed.

 

.  
.

Sif awakened early the next day, when the sky that lived in the embrace of the cosmos started to flush pale shades of pink and gold. She felt easy and relaxed, the adrenaline and battlelust of the day before making for an easy lethargy upon the morning hour.

She rose, said her prayers to Sól to thank her for her duties with the sun, and then slipped into a loose fitting tunic and a soft pair of leggings. She laced up her boots and donned only her gauntlets before leaving her chambers in order to meet the others. The Three were already breaking their fast, and she jostled good naturedly with Volstagg for the last remaining platter of melon. When she came out victorious, the large man preformed a somber ode to the loss his plate suffered, and she pushed a piece towards him through her laughter.

When it became apparent that neither of the princes would be joining them – a rarity for Thor, and not so much for Loki – Sif took it upon herself to tell her friends what they had missed the day prior. She enjoyed exaggerating the fierceness of the creatures, and relished telling of Thor's rashness with taking to battle, and his thickness in dismissing the chance to set his mistake to rights.

She was more somber when speaking of the very real probability of a curse, and the Three looked troubled when she told them of Thor's mishaps on the bifröst the evening prior.

"Have you heard of such a thing?" she asked Volstagg, who was older than all of them – old enough to even remembered the horror of the Great War.

"Questing creatures? Of course I have," Volstagg looked thoughtful. "Centuries ago – when you were just leaning to hold a sword, it was quite the rage to prove ones mettle and earn the right to choose a hippogryph mount. But, the amount of warriors who desired such a mount, and the demand, overran the supply – there were some dishonorable characters who didn't much care to abide by the rules of Quest, and that thinned the herds drastically. The stallions – which are not made to be mounts, but to protect the slow growing packs – were hunted for their horns, which you saw. Elegant, gorgeous things, they were."

Sif frowned, her eyes troubled as Volstagg spoke. That would explain why she saw so few within the palace stables – and fewer still did she know of warriors who took the Quest to earn such a mount. Four centuries, Anann had said, since she had had a worthy warrior pass her way.

"Eventually, the herds were taken from all of the questing sites, and the Allfather hid them all away at a secret location under some powerful protection. All of the tomes giving the location away were said to be burned – minus those that were thought to be untranslatable except by great Odin himself. Apparently, the Allfather did not set his wards with his second son in mind, at the time." And here Volstagg did chuckle, bemused.

Sif felt a smile touch at the corners of her mouth. "And what do you know of the Mórrigan? They proclaimed familiarity with the Allfather. Are they who Odin set to keep watch over the herds?"

Volstagg looked thoughtful. "That is a question that I cannot answer – perhaps it is one more fit for Odin himself."

And wouldn't Loki just love that . . . Sif tapped her fingers on the ornate table before her.

"And there is just one more thing I would say," Volstagg said, his deep voice dropping in the seriousness of his manner. "The hippogryph herds took a great blow from the warriors of all nine of the realms. If there is a Quest one must face to prove their worth . . . it will not be as a simple test of honor and mettle. It will do its utmost to break you in order to protect the packs. You understand what I say, do you not, young one?"

She nodded, her eyes sharp. "Thor has faced worse foes before," she said, her voice sure.

Volstagg smiled. "Indeed he has." And with that, his breakfast called to him again.

Sif looked at him for a long moment before turning to her own plate.

When she and the Three finished and walked to the training rings, she most certainly expected Thor to be there – if not both of the princes. Instead the rings were empty of their sovereigns, holding only the old familiars from amongst the warrior caste. If Sif felt a trickle of worry at that, she did her best to shoo it away by solidly pouncing Fandral in hand to hand sparring, and defeating even Hogun in thrown sports.

When the noon hour came upon them and then long since passed, and Thor had still not shown, Sif finally acknowledged her worry. Something was not right.

She took her leave of her comrades and cleaned up the dust and the sweat from her as quickly as she could. When she set about looking for the two in earnest, she started with her most obvious location, knowing that if she found him, it would be quite easy to find his brother after that.

The palace library was beneath the great gold of the main structure, making it possible for the oldest of the volumes to lead directly into the warded areas – the forbidden sections to the general populace, and the vaults to where the even more rare (and dangerous) of the tomes were kept.

She nodded her head to the Keeper, an ancient woman even older than even Odin, who had grown used to seeing the shield-maiden within the last few centuries, and made her way through the public volumes to the shadows and corners in the far reaches of the keep. There were coves and alcoves here, ancient places where the mages and scribes did their restorations in silence and thick shadows.

She went even further still, twisting and twining through the tall shelves – reaching up for many heights, series of ladders and staircases and greatly grand balconies making the core of the library seem like the ribs of a great and fearsome creature. Here, where the gentle gold of the restricted section pulsed in a humming warning, there was a nook, and often times this was where Loki took his finds to dissect and study. The magic just beyond calmed him, and his eyes were so very bright in the dim torch light – filled and reflecting the spells on the air around him.

She slowed her step as she approached, not wanting to disturb him. Her boots were soft, and it was easy for her to move soundlessly.

Loki looked up from behind his pile of books anyway, his sharp eyes expectant.

"You are no fun at all," Sif declared as she gave up her attempt at stealth to enter their small cove.

Loki gave a watery grin, "A thousand apologies, my lady."

"You are forgiven," she gave grandly as she plopped down in one of the great winged chairs that had been pulled up to the thick wooden table. She had dubbed the chair her own over the years, and no one had contested her claim. "Now, what is so interesting in your books that you have deserted the rest of us for almost the whole pass of a day?"

"It has been that long?" Loki asked under his breath, surprise in his words as he rubbed blearily at his eyes.

She frowned, and then leaned forward to more fully observe him past the tall piles of books and shadow that had hidden him.

She rolled her eyes. "By the Allfather's ravens, but you have yet to even change out of your armor, Loki! Have you slept at all? Eaten anything?"

Loki waved a hand. "Distractions."

Sif snorted. "You're no good to us if you were to pass out in the middle of your books, and then who would find you down here? Certainly not Thor."

"Well then, I am fortunate to have you," Loki returned absently.

Sif snorted. "And you will not have me for much longer if you do not clean up a little better. Did your mother ever teach you the importance of bathing after physical work? Yesterday would count as that."

"She did mention something along those lines, I do believe – the memory is fuzzy at the moment."

Sif rolled her eyes. "Did you find anything interesting, at any rate?"

Loki shrugged. "Enough. The reading is slow thanks to the language it is written in, and I had to go through a truly ridiculous amount of spell work to even make the words appear on the page. These were not meant to be read." But as he said so, there was a pride in his voice – no doubt over the fact that even the strongest of Asgard's handful of mages were not enough to keep him away from anything he set his mind on. The people could say what they wanted about their second son's preference for the elemental arts over the arts of steel, but the fact remained that Loki was the most powerful enchanter the realm had ever seen, a true wielder of the seiðr – to that, no one could argue.

"And what do they say?"

"The history of the hippogryphs, and the mad Questing craze that the realms went through quite a few centuries ago. Most of these are record books – detailing the exact lines that were saved from extinction, and the bloodlines that were merged together for the strongest breeds."

Sif nodded, having heard the general story from Volstagg earlier. "And of the Mórrigan?" she asked.

"Disturbingly little," Loki said. "They are not Aesir – or Vanir, either. They are something else, that much I can see. Daughters of war, existing as three for the price of one." He rubbed at his temples, and the cross sort of look he leveled at the books before him was almost endearing.

Sif smiled gently, wondering how best to phrase what she wanted to say. "You could just ask your father," she pointed out. "No doubt he has heard of our excursion the other day. And if Thor is cursed . . ."

Loki snorted. "And hear only half of the tale from his view? A bard has no reason for falsehoods, and Odin's reasons are as many as they are deep."

Sif frowned, but did not counter what she did not completely disagree with. "I have not seen your brother the whole day through."

"Thor missed breakfast?' Loki chuckled. "A rarity."

"He was not in the practice rings, either."

Loki did frown at that. "It would be best to see how the day has treated him." For a moment he looked to get up, but then he glanced back down at the books spread out before him, considering.

And Sif would have none of that. "Come now – you have yet to get out of your armor, and I would wager my shield that you are developing quite the headache right about now. There is not nearly enough light down here."

The candles before them leapt forth, flaring bright, the warm glow of their flames burning a telling green.

"Clever," Sif rolled the word dryly. "But not nearly enough. Now come – you have spent enough time down here."

Loki sighed, but pushed away from the table. She gave him a hand up, and found a smile touching the corner of her lips when he did not let her fingers go. How the smallest things normally meant the most to him - no matter how many times he may have rolled his eyes at her harping, she knew that he enjoyed every moment of it.

"Now," she looked down thoughtfully at the piles of books. "How many of these need to be returned to where you should not have taken them from before we depart?"

Loki looked innocent. "Only one or two," he dismissed the question. Yet, instead of returning them, he waved a hand – the dozen or so tomes hovered in the air before falling in on themselves, shrunk down to a size he would easily be able to conceal on the way out. With a flash of smoke, they disappeared completely, safe in some hidden place until they were needed again.

Sif let out a long sigh. "Mischief maker," she teased affectionately.

"Of which I have never denied," he made to point out, and she tugged him away before he could find another volume to catch his interest.

On their way out, the Keeper watched them with hooded eyes, but made no move to stop them. Some things, Sif knew, would never change.

By the time Sif forced Loki to change and find something to eat, it was already approaching evening. Their search for Thor did not get far when Queen Frigg spied them both, and asked them to walk with her. Their path took them past the Great Hall to the grand vista, the great sight of Asgard beyond was a brilliant thing as the light all around them threatened to die.

Sif was silent as Frigg went through her pleasantries with her son, and she noticed with some amusement that Loki looked almost with trepidation upon the words his mother would say. For no doubt their actions from the day before were known to all. Surely, Odin himself had already had words with his Queen over what had been done, and those words were not any that Sif looked forward to hearing. Loki, she knew, could easily spin a story around any listening ear – but with Frigg he was always oddly truthful, and for that reason alone, he tended to shy away from her presence until such events had passed.

"Your brother," Frigg started, "woke this morning in an interesting predicament."

"Did he now?" Loki said carefully.

"Indeed. Apparently the moon you visited had a rather interesting species of vine similar to wythorn root."

Loki, who knew more of herblore than Sif due to his magicks, made a face. "How unfortunate."

"Eir was able to treat him well enough," Frigg continued. "The boils are gone, and the rash that remains looks worse than it really is, she did assure us." Loki was silent as to the revelation, and Frigg looked at him long and slow out of the corner of her eye. In the faltering light, she was very lovely, very golden – and prophesies loitered deep in her eyes. "Come now, my son – Thor has told us of your visit to the Questing Moon. We were quite surprised to hear so, for in the early time after the Great War we went through many lengths to hide that sacred ground away. It was disappointing to hear that a son of the Allfather could treat such a holy moon so."

"We did not realize what we had happened upon until too late," Loki said, agreeing, but careful not to speak against Thor.

Frigg gave a deep sigh. "You will have to return to break the curse. And it is not a challenge to take lightly. Your father has not sent a warrior to quest against the Mórrigan in nearly four centuries. None have been ready – worthy enough of their exacting standards."

Sif looked carefully out at the horizon, the second warning that day about the perils of the Mórrigan's quest weighing heavy upon her. At her side, closer to Frigg, Loki snorted, no doubt upon imagining Thor's reaction at hearing that spoken. "And Thor agrees to go?"

Frigg gave a delicate frown. "Thor does not see his slight, and his pride is wounded for just now being told of such a warrior's challenge."

"And Father has convinced him to do so?"

"In the end, Odin will not need to speak at all. Thor will come to that realization alone," Frigg's eyes twinkled merrily. "And yet, for now - you have questions about the Mórrigan, and you will not ask your father. Ask, and I will answer you as truthfully as I can."

"Who are they?" Loki said simply. "Their magic was powerful, and they fairly shimmered on the mental plane. They are not Aesir, and they are not Vanir."

"No, they are neither," Frigg agreed. "All three are daughter's of War – born of War's ferocity and the fertility of the blood it spilled. Of the sisters, Anann was firstborn – the mortals called her Gentle Annie in the way you may call the fae the Good People, treading carefully as to not cause offense. She took worshipers from the people of the Celtic lands – not far from the mortals of our own blood. She and her sisters were three folds of one cord, and one cannot exist without the other."

Curious now, Sif leaned forward. It explained why just being in the presence of the Mórrigan tugged at her. They were made of the same ether – the same fold of cloth.

Frigg continued. "It has been many years, and yet I can assure you that they remain clear within the mind, even after many centuries. Anann is a shepherdess of the dying upon the battlefield, you may say. Much as the Valkyrie, she was tasked with taking the unworthy for battle when her duties were still towards Midgard and her sons. Macha is the mother of war horses – she is what gives a steed its charge, and a rider its bond in battle. Badb is the last born of the sisters, and she birthed of War's desolation. To mortal men, she was the crows and vultures who circled the battle fields – instilling chaos and confusion in the lines, and foretelling death amongst the ranks.

"Now, they gained their power and their strength through the belief of mortal men. And yet, as time passed, and the centuries wore on, fewer and fewer still were the men who still uttered their prayers to the Mórrigan. And so, when the Great War came, and Odin scouted far and wide across the realms for allies, the sisters were one of the first to join our warriors. All they asked was a price in return.

"The Great War carried on, and the Mórrigan proceeded to strew confusion and death in the ranks of the Jötunn armies. They fought well, and they fought with the whole of their souls. Such were their contributions that your father agreed to abide by anything they asked – within reason.

"In the end, their request was simple. The wished only for a place to live the centuries in peace, and curb the bloodlust that consumed each of them. Agreeing to honor such a wish, Odin gave to them a moon in the space of Álfheimr – a peaceful and beautiful land that blessed their war torn souls.

"Now, Macha still carried on her duties to the herds of war, and she ran one of the questing sites for those warriors who wished to quest for a hippogryph mount. I believe you have heard about the warrior's greed for those mighty steeds? " Loki nodded, and Frigg smiled knowingly. "When it became apparent that the packs would have to be rebuilt, it was Macha who volunteered for the task. She and her sisters rounded up all that remained of the herds the nine realms wide, and took the few they found back to their moon. There the packs recovered, and the quests continued as they should.

"Only, now that such an offense was struck against the brood of Macha, the quests became dangerous, unholy things that few could beat. And the few who could often found such a price too high to pray for something as simple as an enchanted mount for battle.

"Indeed, it has been almost four hundred years since Odin has sent a warrior to the Mórrigan, and since then, their world has fallen into myth. The maps and books that spoke of the hidden moon were destroyed, minus those select few that could only be read by those who were worthy to decipher the tongue. Really, they should have been the tomes that Odin hid deep within the vaults – especially with how voracious your reading habit can be," and here Frigg's look did hold a rebuke for her youngest.

Loki looked innocently at his mother, and Sif rolled her eyes.

"It explains the force of their magic," Loki said.

"And the force of their curse," Sif said rather abruptly, her eyes looking beyond where Loki and Frigg had been engrossed in their conversation.

"What do you mean?" Loki asked, before turning to where her eyes had fixed. "Oh," he said then, rather stupidly. "I see."

Beyond them, Thor was stalking to where they stood, his stride furious, and his scowl potent. Around him the air crackled, and Sif felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on edge.

"I find myself in need of a way to break this curse! Immediately," Thor thundered murderously as soon as he came upon them. Truly, he did look worse for the wear – his cape was torn, and he had forgone his armor entirely for simple garb – of which a very suspicious green and mucus like substance clung. Surely there was a good story behind that, Sif thought as she looked upon the red splotches that dotted his skin – an allergic reaction to the plant that Frigg had told them of.

Most alarming though, was the suspicious absence of Thor's eyebrows. And his hair was cut in ungracious lines – as if a child had taken a dull blade to his hair. And did she smell _smoke_ upon him?

Trying very hard to hide her laughter behind her hand, Sif dared to ask the disgruntled prince. "Thor . . . what happened to your eyebrows?"

Thor glared at her, the gaze less intimidating without the aid of his eyebrows. "Amora lost control of a heating spell," Thor finally gave sullenly, his eyes daring them to comment. "For some reason an unnatural cold has been following me, and she was determined that she could 'warm me up'. Apparently, I am to suffer the attentions of the witch, even when ensorcelled."

As Sif lost control of her laughter, Loki pushed aside his mirth to ask, "You seriously went to Amora for help?"

Thor looked mulish. "It was a good idea at the time – seeing as how _you_ could not be dragged away from your books," he narrowed betrayed eyes at his brother.

"And your hair?" Frigg questioned delicately.

Thor took a deep breath, a flush staining his cheeks. "Fandral said that nothing improved an unfortunate day quite like a visit to . . . well, sufficient to say, he recommended his hair dresser. And Hrafnr . . . slipped. Apparently he was not as skilled with a blade as he was boasted of to be! By the Norn's teeth, but it is as if I had Sif cut my hair - no offense, my lady. "

"I have taken none," Sif tried to recover herself.

At her side, Loki's eyes were glittering wickedly. "If you wish, brother, I have such a potion that can aid with the regrowth of your hair. You will have flowing blonde tresses again in no time."

Thor backed away from his brother, his eyes narrowed in warning. "I have seen what you can do to golden hair, brother – and while Sif may look a thousand times better with hair the shade of night, I do not think that the same can be said of myself."

Sif looked at him in mock outrage. "And here I always counted Fandral as the vain one."

"Imagine what would have happened had he visited Volstagg's hair dresser," Loki pointed out, and Sif found her laughter returning anew.

"You may laugh now, but I for one tire of this trickery," Thor scathed. "If a Quest is needed to prove my worth – then a quest is what we shall embark on. Can I count upon your steel - my brother, my lady?"

"Always," Sif said in reply, a dangerous sort of smile splitting her face over the promise of such a challenge.

Loki took a moment before answering, choosing instead to say, "Brother, you do realize that the Quest of the Mórrigan is not like others you have faced, do you?

Thor's look turned fierce. "I do not have much of a choice now, do I? Besides, there is not yet a challenge in the realms that has managed to defeat me. This one shall be no different."

Loki gave a sigh, no doubt as frustrated as the suddenly weary looking Frigg at how oblivious Thor was over his own slight. "Indeed not, Thor. Yes, I shall accompany you as well."

"That is good to hear," Thor moved to stand between Loki and Sif, throwing a heavy arm around both of their shoulders. "Now then, get a good night's rest – for tomorrow we quest!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Þjálfi** and **Röskva** were Thor's servants in Norse mythology, so it was fun to name the horses after them here.
> 
>  **Seiðr** : Norse term for magic.


	3. in knots, your shadow grows

It was dawn on the Questing Moon when the bifröst released them from its magic.

On the horizon, pink and blue streaked across the sky in hushed tones, trailing birdsong and morning dew in their wake. Heimdall had let them land above the same canyon as the day before, putting russet stone before them, and shadowed forest at their back. Thick, cool mist covered all, a gift of the high morning hours.

Between his brother and her, Thor discreetly rubbed at the rash upon his face while his eyes narrowly searched the land around them. He eyed the skeletal rock structures looping about the canyons with distaste, the softly glowing runes etched into them seemingly mocking now he knew what they spoke of. "And where are the witches, brother?" he grumbled, like a bear roused early from its winter sleep.

Loki slanted his gaze over to Thor, and said, "I doubt that we shall have to search for them. They will come to us."

On the edges of Sif's senses, she felt a tremor, akin to the shake of the ground as troops marched past. She breathed in deep, and felt the mail covering her chest rise with the motion.

"They are here," she announced. She had yet to draw her glaive, but her shield was a promising weight against her back, anchoring her.

All turned to the misted forests in time to see the three figures who seemingly grew from the fog rather than walk forth from it. Anann stood point, much as Thor, her sisters trailing half a step behind - Macha to her right, scowling fiercely, and Badb to her left, in the shadow of the group.

"Son of Odin, you have decided to prove your worth?"

"I am here," Thor declared grandly, his chest puffed out and his hair flowing in tattered remnants about his face, "to end the enchantments that you have ensnared me with."

Macha snorted. "He looks well, does he not, sister? Such flowing tresses that Friggajarson has. Perhaps we should let him be – it would be a pity to take such an appearance from him."

Thor fairly growled as he took a step forward. "You, witch, speak without knowing your place."

"As I speak without knowing my place, so you struck at my own without knowing yours," Macha took a step forward, not easily intimidated. The freckles across the bridge of her nose were pointed upon her pale skin the more she flushed with her anger. "I may say what I wish."

Thor looked to speak more, and rather than let his brother dig himself into a deeper rut, Loki subtly pushed Thor away from the tiny woman. "Brother, it is not worth your time," he soothed, even as he held a placating hand before Macha. "Save your ire for the Quest."

Thor grunted, but took a step back. Loki remained between his brother and the sisters. "Now, Good Annie, would you be so gracious as to outline the parameters of the Quest to us?"

Anann, silent the whole time, let the corner of her lips quirk up in a smile. Her eyes were very bright, like spring, at odds with the stigma of war she held upon her shoulders. "You have done your readings well, second son," she gave. "What else did my Lady Frigg say of us?"

"That your quest is formidable, and your right to demand it so of us genuine. Our family benefited greatly from your aid in the Great War, and so, we will play your game rather than demand that you end your ensorcellment."

"Such graciousness," Macha muttered.

Badb raised an ashen brow, shadowed over her eyes. "Sister, save your taunts for the Thunderer, for you know well that the Trickster's strength of charms lies not within you to match."

Anann stepped forth, waving a hand to each of her sisters. In turn, they straightened, falling silent as they fell in behind the eldest. And what a perfectly conditioned little unit they were, Sif watched, observing in silence – as the brothers often allowed her to do so with their words claiming attention from her. It was an old routine, one that the Mórrigan seemed to make well of, as well.

"My challenge demands thrice of you, Odinson," Anann set about instructing them. "First: of your mind I will see cunning. Secondly, I will see your courage – for both yourself and others. And, finally, I will see your worth, not only to lead, but to demand that others follow. Fulfill these conditions, and I will lift the curse from upon you."

"Done," Thor declared.

Anann gave him a withering smile. "Indeed," she said dryly. "Now," she turned, and thrust the hook of her sheppard's staff towards the forest, encompassing its shadows and beyond. "This forest is the Knott of the Mórrigan. Within the Knott are the Silver Trees, and the shadowed pools of Mara. Pass these, following upon the right path of the Three, and then you will find yourself within the glade of Cúchulainn. There you will prove your right to lead – and that will be my third challenge. Do you agree to prove your worth henceforth?"

Thor leveled a harsh look at her, set from stone. "I so swear," he gave though, and once sworn his word he would keep.

"Excellent," Anann tapped her staff before her. "Then we begin. Reach the glade of Cúchulainn before twilight, or else your worth is forfeit. I wish you well, sons of Odin, daughter of War."

The Mórrigan were gone as ethereally as they had came, reclaimed by the shadows and mist of their world. Sif lifted a crooked grin upon seeing so, the novelty of such a retreat lost upon them after so many years spent with Loki.

Thor lifted his nose, and shook what was left of his hair. "We move forward then."

"Indeed," Loki's eyes were a bright flare of green in the half light, trapped as they were between the rising sun and the sheltered forest. Thor set to march, and Sif fell into her place at Loki's side.

The forest swallowed them like the sky would a cloud. The trees around them were ancient things – with bases that all three of them together would not be able to wrap their arms around to encompass. Their great height was seemingly endless, reaching up into the sky far above them. Their branches were thick and tangled, looping and hanging about each other until it was impossible to see where one ended and another began. Their interlocking branches kept the light away minus for a warm and golden glow above them. The plants on the very bottom of the forest floor seemed to glow with their own light, creating a metallic gleam to cut through the darkness all around them. The branches of the giant oaks would sweep down low, their long and leafed extensions almost like gigantic fingers, looking desperately to touch. Sif felt the wood brush against her shield as she pushed her way through, and the metal pulsed softly at her back.

There were paths marked by ancient stones, but the longer that they traveled the marked ways, the more it became apparent that each path twisted and doubled back on the other. The trees formed barriers, she soon realized. They were not naturally grown, but instead they were plotted and planted, grown to act as walls and shields. A true knot – a maze. The wood formed patterns and spirals, almost unnatural in the twist and play of the bark and bough. There were letters to be read in the knotting wood, a puzzle to those sharp of eye enough to see.

In a way, Sif was reminded of the Queen's garden back at home, and the centuries of their childhood in which they had played hide and seek in the thick hedge mazes there in. How towering those walls had seemed back then. How hopeless their path. Now, Sif was almost tall enough to see over Frigg's sanctuary, and their secrets were paths long since learned to them.

Thor's pace had slowed once he came to the same realization as Sif. He cocked his head towards his brother. "These paths lead not straight," he said.

Loki nodded. "So it would seem."

Thor glanced over at the others. "The runes on the markers, what say they?"

"They conflict with their directions," Loki muttered, and Sif recognized the flare of curiosity there within. "I have noticed three variations of the same language since leaving the canyon already."

Thor snorted. Sif slowed next to him, letting Loki examine the nearest marker. When he reached out a hand to it, flaring green, more symbols showed where none were before. She tilted her head curiously, wondering what the words said to him that were blank to others.

The correct path of the Three, Anann had said . . .

"Only one of the tongues will show a true path," Loki finally decided. "The other two are decoys."

Thor narrowed his eyes, the gesture loosing some of its vehemence by the absence of his eyebrows. "Cheats," he growled. "How typical."

Loki raised a brow on his own, purposefully mocking his brother. "I would simply call it clever."

"You would," Thor said. "You, who prefer trickery over honest steel -"

"- and how long would you have wandered in these woods if I could not decipher the runes so? The Mórrigan simply know the strength of their own weapons, and they develop them so. Honesty is nothing when it comes to victory."

"For a coward, which is exactly what those witches are."

Loki sighed, and Sif took a step closer to him, knowing how much the old argument tired him – bit more deeply than he would ever let his brother know. While his seiðr's gifts made him as useful as any in battle, he was not first and foremost with steel, and the Aesir – born of the battle and the fight, could not understand their royal son's preference for other arts. Even Thor, with all the love Sif knew he bore for his brother, was perplexed at times.

"I, for one, approve of such trickery when in aid, and not against," Sif knocked her shoulder against Loki's as she stepped past him, a balm in her words. "Now, which way should we pass, Tangletongue?"

Loki concentrated, and the markers around them pulsed softly. The more his brow furrowed, and brighter and brighter one set of syllables gleamed over the other two until even Sif and Thor could see a difference in the shapes of the three different directions. "This," Loki finally said, pointing to a rune that was awash in the verdant touch of his powers. "This marker will lead true."

"Excellent," Thor declared, and he set forth. "Come along then."

Loki stayed, a willow rooted from the ground, his smile sharp as he snagged his gaze upon hers. She too held.

And then Thor stopped, pink staining the tips of his ears. "After you, brother," he bid sheepishly. "If you please."

There was half a chuckle lost in the back of Loki's throat as he shook his head. For all of their past annoyances, his glance was fond as he passed Thor on the path. Sif held a moment longer, and then took a point behind both, her boots slipping softly upon the ground.

They walked in this way for some time, with Loki translating the runes, and Thor holding Mjölnir at loose attention from behind his brother. The woods had been humid when they had started, the damp air making her armor stick to her skin, but the air had cooled the further into the Knott they traveled. The mists had not given to the rise of the day, as she thought they would. Instead they swirled and darkened. If she were to look down, she would not be able to see her feet. Before her, Thor and Loki were hazy blocks of green and red, smeared by the fog – like an artist blending his tones upon a canvas.

The forests eventually thinned, and instead of the coarse and tangled wood that they had started in, the landscape took on an elegant, primeval appearance. The path started to elevate – and Sif remembered seeing the foothills of the great mountains beyond when they had been in the canyons of the valley between the two ranges. The glade they sought was further up upon the slope, she would wager.

The air was thinner, cooler and sweeter around them. The mists gave way to tall evergreens, so tall that Sif could not see the tops of their mass, even with her sharp sight. The bottom half of their trunks were bare, giving the world around them an eerie appearance – ghosts in the mists, stabbing their sharp peaks towards the sky.

"The Silver Trees?" she hazarded a guess. The mist had condensed upon the bark, giving them a silver and grey appearance in the fog. All around them were wintered tones – silver and charcoal and grey. She felt washed out and colorless, anchored only by the bright flare that was her companions.

"So it would seem," Loki said. His brow was furrowed, and she recognized the mark of his concentration. Although herself blind to the elemental arts, she could feel her shield pulse at her back in response to the magic in the air, swirling all about them.

Carefully, she walked on, and then Loki held out a hand. "Watch your step," he muttered.

She frowned, and looked down, and noticed then that myriads of pools dotted the landscape at the base of the pines, obscured by the mists. The fog shifted, and she saw that she almost had a very wet and awkward fall before her.

"Odd," she said upon seeing how many dotted the landscape. They were completely still waters, nary a ripple in their depths, even though the wind that swirled through the pines was stiff and echoing. She stopped to kneel down besides one, and immediately her eyes were drawn to the black cast of the water.

She could see none of her reflection within. The water was soulless. And yet, she could not look away . . .

Loki's hand was cold upon her shoulder, a weight that startled her out of her haze. "Do not look within the pools," he said, his tone besmeared by a dark knowledge. "They are shadow seekers – mirrors that reach all the way into the depths of Niflheimr, and the realm of Hel within. They feed off of the primal parts of your mind, and whatever they find within they will magnify and return tenfold in order to continue feasting."

"You speak of Mara?" Thor snorted. "She is simply an old wives tales told to scare children, brother."

Loki leveled his gaze at the other. "Then look within, and say my words are false."

Thor let out a deep breath of air, disturbing the mists. "I need not," he finally said, carefully picking around the pool that was before him.

"These are alive," Loki said. "But they have no souls. Don't let them seize at yours." There was no jest within his voice – no mischief or trick, just a warning, seriously set.

Sif got to her feet, and picked gingerly around the pool. Her shield pulsed, as if the magic of the place were trying to pull at the heat of her.

The further they walked, the more if became apparent that something sinister lurked within the pools. Whispers haunted the mists, reaching out to their ears alone.

 _Sif, Sif, Sif_ . . . she heard echo, and the voice was poured with such a longing that her ears overfilled with the pain of it. She ached in accord with it.

"Ignore them," Loki said, his tone a sharp counterpoint to the wailing whispers. "They reflect your fears, your desires."

"They are as nagging as Freyja," Thor declared grandly, but she read the pause in his step at the pool he was then passing. His hands clenched into mighty fists, as if fighting the urge to look. And stare.

 _Sif_ . . .

She sucked in a breath through her nose, let it out through her teeth.

The pools were more to number now. It was hard to find dry land to step around them. She tried to let her gaze find the pools in nothing more than a glance to guide her step.

Her eyes slipped right, staring out at a patch of silvered grass.

She stepped carefully.

A break in the silence came then when a flock of birds took to the air, disturbed from their hiding places by the travelers. Sif stepped back out of reflex upon hearing the screech of them on the air, her hand automatically falling upon the knife at her belt. When she stepped back, her right foot sunk into the pool, snared. She rolled back her eyes with a curse, and upon finding that the pool was shallower than she would have thought it to be, turned.

And she found that she could not look away.

The waters were very black, colorless, reflecting nothing from around its depths. These were stronger than the first they had passed, Sif realized. Something deep within her mind told her that she should look up – look away, _far away_ and never look again . . .

But when she looked up, she saw only black. The forest had gone. Thor had gone. Loki had gone.

Her breath echoed loudly in her ears.

"Thor?" Sif called into the darkness that had engulfed her. "Loki?"

She took one step to her right. To her left even the silver shine of the pool had disappeared.

 

.  
.

Almost immediately, Thor felt that something was different.

He was alone on the forest path. The silver born mist about the forest around them had faded. The trees had faded, and the fog had given way to light. Such a bright, brilliant light. Golden and thick, yet seemingly buttery and soft – able to touch. Sunlight seemingly cut through the clouds of gold, letting pale specks glint and glimmer here and there.

He walked through the cloud until he could reach something solid. A window, thick and wide. And through it he could see the grand expanse of Asgard beyond, golden and eternal.

And yet . . . it was not Asgard as he had known. It was a different Asgard, an Asgard seemingly after a massive fire had swept through the great city. Goðheimr was no more – its buildings laid in tatters, falling upon each other like stones on the bottom of a river. It's great causeways and bridges were cut away, and ash fluttered on the breeze, made golden by the serene glow of the cosmos above. The stars, ever eternal, mocked the ruins below with their splendor. Forever unchanged and unchangeable.

Before the window, there was a great loom. And before it his mother sat. He was in Fensalir, Frigg's Hall, he realized, though he knew not how. She wove a thick and yellow cloth, delicate and gauzy, seemingly made of sunlight rather than any tangible material. Her eyes were clouded with a white light - celestial with its brilliance, while she was lost to her visions, and Thor wondered what she saw there.

The question was on his tongue when she turned to him. And yet, rather than the smile that Frigg normally reserved for him, there was only a frown. It was a wound upon the gentle planes of her face, sewed tight and yet still seeping.

Thor had never known that her eyes could be so cold, even with the warmth of the light around them. "How dare you come here," her words were hissed, like Loki throwing one of his blades. And as such, they cut true.

"Mother?" he questioned, his confusion heavy in his voice – for he had never taken lengths to hide what he had felt as so.

"After what you have done," her voice trembled with an old and ancient rage that Thor had never witnessed upon Frigg's lips directed at an enemy, let alone at her son. "After how you have dishonored yourself."

"Mother, I don't understand," there was a note of desperation in his voice, in the flicker of his eyes as he glanced between his ruined home and his distraught mother.

"No, you do not. You never have," Frigg agreed, standing. The long cast of her hair, golden and brilliant as the harvest was snarled and tangled. It had lost its shine. Her face bore the mark of time, wrinkled with the weight of a grief he could not comprehend. Her eyes were shadowed with something he could not identify, could not name. She still stood tall, but she was as felled as the great city beyond her.

"Mother?"

"Do you realize what you have done?" she practically shrieked, thrusting a hand to encompass her loom. The city beyond. The ash on the air. "You have destroyed everything. Everything is gone . . . everything," and here Frigg's voice broke. She walked back to her loom, and picked up the delicate cloth she had weaved. It dissolved in her hands, lost to the golden light around her – the warmth of it so at odds with the horror of the dream.

It had to be a dream. It could not have been real.

And yet, Thor tried to awaken himself. Still the vision held.

. . . did he dream?

She threw the ruined strands down upon the ground, where they turned to wisps of smoke on the wind. She leveled a thick glare at her son. The smoke before her curled, as if inhabited by ghosts.

"You have shamed me," was all she said, but Thor felt the weight of it as if he had taken a blow from Volstagg.

"You have shamed all of us," a new voice said. From the smoke of Frigg's visions, his own lord and father rose. Odin was a spirit, filling the room. His eye was a star – a formless cast of light. His body was as intangible as the mist which compassed it, but Thor could feel the mass of him still.

"Father?" Thor questioned.

"You have brought this upon your home, your family," Odin thundered in a way that had always made Thor feel tiny – as if he were a child in his father's shadow, never mind that it had been centuries since he had stood smaller than his father.

"What did I bring?"

"War," Odin's voice was a whip cracking. "Death and desolation and decay."

"Our end," Frigg's voice echoed coldly. "You were supposed to be strong."

"You were supposed to save us all," and from the mist beside Odin, Freyja rose, her loveliness cast aside in favor for a crone's appearance in death. "You let us die. You let us burn."

"And how blindly we followed you." From the mist, the Three rose, harsh lines etched into their faces where Thor had only ever known comrades in arms. Brothers. Friends. It was Hogun who spoke, and the words on the man who did not waste his time on worthless syllables cut him more than even his father's wrath.

"We followed you into the Twilight, and you could not stop it. Could not stop as fire devoured everything. We burn, and you did nothing to save us."

"You have dishonored your family," Odin thundered.

"You have betrayed us," Frigg whispered.

"You are not worthy," Freyja threw her nose into the air.

"No," Thor protested. "Your visions lie. The loom knows not what it speaks of."

"Does it not?" and now Sif rose from the mist, her cherished voice turned mocking. "Why, you have never had the wisdom of Odin, let alone the strength of him. You think now to tell us that we lie?"

"Your thoughtlessness, and the pain it sowed in its wake. You kill him. Kill him with your recklessness and your rebellious tongue. This is the future, Thor Odinson – a future of your own making." Frigg's voice was an axe, falling upon the executioner's block.

"And to think that you had at one time thought yourself worthy enough to take your father's throne," Sif laughed – she actually laughed. Thor had thought he had known every laugh from her – in humor, in indignation, in war. This was different. This _burned_ against him, and a voice inside him muttered _she would never say so._

"So weak," Frigg whispered in disgust. At her side, Odin had crossed his arms. "Just like your brother."

At that, Thor looked up, his eyes hardening over the grief that had settled there at the words of his brethren. A crack appeared in the endless golden haze around him. A silver slice that grew the longer he challenged his father with his gaze. "No," he said.

The crack grew.

"Both so worthless," Sif muttered, ignoring him.

"What an embarrassment," Fandral laughed.

"A failure," Volstagg mourned.

"Weakness," Hogun spat upon the ground.

"No," Thor said stubbornly, fisting his hands and closing his eyes. He concentrated, found his center – found the slice of silver that cut through the gold around him. Willed it to grow.

Behind the blackness of his closed gaze, there were warm eyes on his own, a pair he did not yet recognize, but brown and warm enough to cut through the nightmare of his vision. He felt a tremor in the deep of his bones at the look in their depths. "You let them call weak what you have found strength in?" she said softly, and the glimmer of pride there – of _understanding_ , shook Thor more deeply than he could have imagined such simple words could.

Thor opened his eyes, and stood straight. "You dare to mock the son of Odin? The second son of Bor's line? I am Thor, and my father's strength is my own. My father's strength is my brother's strength, and you shall not slight that blood with your lies any longer."

He tried to remember where he was before this. Remember the silver forest, and the empty pools which his brother had spoken of as thieves.

They would not take this from him.

Thor lifted Mjölnir, and closed his eyes to the taunts and the jeers around him. Instead, he concentrated on the memory of his mother's smile. His father's hand heavy upon his shoulder in pride. Sif's blade against his own in the practice rings. Volstagg's lusty grin at a feast, and Fandral's delighted laugh before the looking glass. Hogun's support in his silences, and Freyja's epic loveliness. He thought of his brother, the anchor at his side – the moon to his sun – and he felt something cold and enraged pulse through him. The caster of this vision had made their mistake mocking his second as such. For while Thor himself could be torn down by blows aimed for him alone, it was quite another matter entirely when one of his own was struck . . .

It was not pardonable. These visions would not pass.

"Weak."

"Worthless."

"Pathetic."

And he said: "Enough! I have born the weight of your lies – but no longer." Calling upon every ounce of power within him, he brought Mjölnir down upon the floor of his mother's hall. He watched as lightning tore through the golden vision – setting fire to the city beyond. The spirits shrieked and screamed and as they were felled, Thor felt his body shudder – fighting to be released from the enchantments which had held him in thrall. Finally, the strength of the storm broke. The darkness gave.

When he opened his eyes, he was breathing heavy. Sweat beaded his brow and his hair stuck to the shadow of a space between the base of his head and the lip of his armor. His great limbs quivered, and so he breathed in deep, calming himself. Before him was the pool that had ensnared him. It was quiet now, the darkness in its depths not quite as poignant once he knew what that shadow was made of. The shades of Niflheimr would not be one to ensnare him again.

Baring his teeth for a moment at the pool, he got to his feet. Instantly, he spied for his companions in the mist. "Loki?" he called. "My lady?"

Silence.

His heart high in his throat, he pushed through the mist. If the visions had been so cruel to him, how would Loki stand? Loki, who had always felt the weight of others most acutely. Sif, who wore her armor so well, but was soft underneath . . .

No.

Each were strong. They would break free. As Thor had broken free.

He stumbled upon Loki first – a few paces from him, his hand within the pool, enchantments still glimmering on his fingertips. Thor felt guilt spike within him when he realized that the other must have fallen to the visions when he was trying to break Thor out of his own.

Impatient, Thor struck his hand against the water.

"Loki, wake up!" he called, splashing the water again. "Loki, you will wake up now."

The other was silent, his brow creased as if in pain, and Thor felt himself sicken as he imagined what fear the pool had found to exploit and feed on. For Thor, failing his family – the realms, letting the Twilight of the Gods fall upon them all was an old fear, not nearly unfamiliar. Loki, who pondered so deeply and felt so acutely – his silences were so far from Thor at times, and he feared . . .

"Loki, as a son of the Allfather and my brother, you have the strength to end this enchantment," Thor dipped his hand into the water this time, willing every feeling of confidence and pride he felt in accordance with his brother to pierce the waters and somehow find Loki within. "And so you will wake up. You will wake up _now_. Do you hear me?"

"Please Loki," Thor then whispered, the desperation within him lending his voice a softness he would not have known himself capable of before.

Silence.

The water was cold at his hand.

And then Loki stirred. He coughed, as if trying to suck in air after breathing in water. His eyes were wide as he drew his hand back from the water as if burned. He very much looked like a stag, stumbling back from the aim of a hunter's bow, and Thor stilled himself, letting Loki find his bearings once more.

"Loki?" Thor questioned as the other stood, staring at the pool as if it held Hel herself within its depths.

"I am fine," the other said, too quickly.

Thor stood as well, more slowly. His eyes troubled. "What did you see?" he asked, as softly as he could.

Loki's gaze snapped to him then, something dark and shadowed there that Thor could not interpret. Could not think to call its understanding on his own.

His grin, when he gave it was sharp – as if someone had taken a knife to his face. "It matters not . . . I, I heard you within. It called me back to myself." In the words, there was gratitude, if Thor so chose to take it.

And so he did. "As if I would let you fall to so petty a magick," Thor scoffed, "You must know that I will always come for you." His words were grand, but his eyes were worried. He knew Loki saw his concern as such, for a moment later Loki's face relaxed into something more sincere – more credible for his sake.

He breathed in deep, and thought just as Loki asked, "Where is Sif?"

The feeling returned to Loki's eyes, but it was not on behalf of himself. "Sif," her name was a soundless whisper on Loki's lips as he waved his hand angrily, clearing the air of both mist and fog in a fierce sweep of magic over the forest floor. Loki's eyes were very green, and Thor let himself look on, entranced as the other fairly glowed with a power that he couldn't even begin to understand.

"There," Loki spied her first, knelt down before her own pool. Where Loki's body had been a bowstring, pulled taut when Thor had found him, Sif was the opposite – she had turned in on herself, drawing her knees up close to her chest, and wrapping her arms about them. She was a ball before them, presenting the smallest possible target.

Thor felt bile in his throat upon seeing her so – fierce Sif, who had always been a flame, ever burning. Wickedly taunting, and ever marching.

Loki knelt down besides her, his hands tenderly finding her face – discerning how deep her slumber truly was. His thumbs were long and white upon the height of her cheekbones, and Thor felt something within him catch at the gesture.

"Can you awaken her?" Thor asked, his voice bleeding with his concern.

A muscle in Loki's jaw twitched, his eyes were narrow slashes upon his face, lost to the shadows of him. "She will not be lost to us," he said, as close to a promise as his silver tongue could spin.

He turned before Sif, and like Thor had done for his brother – he dipped his hand into the pool to interrupt the spell. But unlike Thor's desperation, his movements were cool and mechanical. Pointed, as he slipped into her vision next to her.

Thor saw the exact moment where the magic snared Loki alongside Sif, and then, there was nothing left but do but to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Glade of Cúchulain** : Cú Chulain was an Irish folk hero, comparable to Achilles, who was known best for his rally against Ulster, in which he slighted the Morrigan. He was the only one in mythology to slight the three, and live to tell the tale – even going so far as to heal Anann by blessing the milk she drew from a cow in the form of an old woman. Later, he was blessed in battle for this
> 
>  **Mara** : A dream stealing wraith mentioned in Celtic, Norse, and Germanic folklore (Called a Mare, Mara, and Marh, respectively), who stole your terror from dreams. This is where the term 'nightmare' comes from. She is often compared to Incubi and Sucubi.
> 
>  **Seiðr** : Norse term for magic.


	4. between the two

Around the Mórrigan, there were shadows.

The light beyond them was fading, the sun dropping from its high cradle in the sky that told the noon hour to start to gently kiss the horizon below. The glade around them was silent, the wind sweeping through the grass as gently as fingers would through hair. The trees framing the glade swayed in time to an ancient beat – the pulse of magic which bound the clearing to the moon, which bound one sister to the next.

The clearing of Cúchulainn was a sheltered glade on the grand sweep of the mountain range. The tall pines naturally swept about the land there, parting for a magick in the fabric of the moon, a well that drew from the same deep springs as Mimir's own. A stone altar had been erected where the well parted the ground, formed by three slabs of stone in the tradition of the Gaelic lands of Midgard, runic symbols etched into the rock and pulsing brightly so close to its mistresses.

Upon the altar, stretched lazily, was Macha, tapping her riding crop restlessly against the tall leather of her boots. Her eyes were upon the clouds above, her mouth tightly drawn where her pose would suggest a lazy disregard for the goings on around her.

Some steps away from the altar was Anann, knelt down in the deep grace. There were two chalices out before her, filled with the water of the well and wine which she had poured from a flask at her side. She was staring into the glasses, her eyes foggy as her fingers turned white knuckled about the horn. Her staff laid in the grass next to her, close to her left hand, which was bound by a thick wrap of sheep's wool.

Macha's restless tapping against her boot ceased when a crow cawed from ahead, throwing a shadow against the ground from the long rays of sun above the black wings. Anann looked up, her eyes tracing the flight of the bird as she circled low. There was a shimmer of smoke, a burn that extinguished itself as soon as if had started; and then the crow's talons struck the ground. Wings beat, sending smoky feathers fluttering as the glass bones traded themselves for iron and warrior's wear; the slender curve of an ebony beak morphing into a thin straight line of a mouth. Badb blinked back the magick from her eyes as her form straightened. One callused hand brushed back her hair from her face, still trailing feathers to fall upon the ground below.

Macha didn't bother straightening from her lazy pose upon the altar. "You bear news, sister?" she asked quickly, bellying her easy confidence. Badb tilted her head, her dead eyes upon Anann as Macha flushed, her place remembered as she said, "If Anann here wishes to hear you speak, of course."

Anann gave half a smile, inclining her head. "Speak, sister."

Badb said then, "They have made it past the turns of the Knott."

"They approach the pools of Mara then," Anann tilted her head thoughtfully.

Macha snorted. "They are hardy, these Questors."

"Did you not expect them to make it so?" Anann asked her sister curiously.

Macha rolled her eyes. "All brawn and no brains is the first son of Odin, I expected him to wander those paths until sundown before asking Heimdall to take him home – curse and all."

"Obviously, you do not remember the stubbornness of Odin," Anann said wryly. "His son is no different - and he has surrounded himself with those who fill his weaknesses. His second had the mind to unravel our paths - and yet, the Trickster's steel is a token to the Thunderer. You see? They are a circle, sister."

"One would think that you would understand such a symbiotic circle," Badb said when Macha snorted at Anann's assessment. The words of the third sister were rare, but when spoken were loudly heard.

Macha sat up straighter. "Speak and explain your words," her tone threatened like a jabbing dagger. Badb merely blinked at the demand, her stare completely neutral.

"I need not," Badb said softly upon seeing that her arrows had landed as aimed. Macha, battle brilliant and every fierce, was but one part to a whole. Anann with her strategy and her trickery drew the rusting areas in Macha's armor, while Badb played anchor and shield to them both.

Anann quirked half a smile at the words of their third before looking down to the goblet she held in her hand. She held her other hand up, asking for silence, and receiving it. "The First has made it past the pools of Mara," she announced, feeling the exact moment when the Thunderer broke free. The low pulse of the enchantments were a shiver to her skin, making the fine hairs upon the back of her neck stand at end.

Normally, they allowed Mara and her shades to wander freely in the shadowed pools, taking what she wished to lighten her dark abode in Niflheimr. The woman had aided them in times old, and the Mórrigan were not one to sleight one so made of the dark ether of the universe. But the visions which Mara had fed the Aesir were different than so normal a nightmare. These visions Anann had asked for Mara to enchant specifically, and she had given the soul stealer a part of her own light to see the visions come to fruition.

Macha sat up completely, her brow furrowed with worry upon hearing so. "It is not possible," she said incredulously.

Anann looked bemused at the other. "I did not wish Thor to lose his soul over his slight," Anann rubbed her right hand about her left. The left was wrapped in sheep's skin, hiding her frostbitten fingers from view. The touch of Mara still lingered, and Anann would never know her hand to be the same. Still, she tried to restore warmth, as if by habit. "He saw what was needed."

"I would not see your warmth wasted on such a one," Macha still shook her head. "He understands naught what he saw, it will influence nothing."

Anann smiled, it was a sharp thing. "Truly?" Another caress upon her skin; the shadows whispered within her ear. "And yet, it was faith within his second which allowed him to break free."

Macha frowned, the freckles upon her nose stark against her pale skin as her ire returned. "Sister, we were all there when the Nornir spoke of that which is to come. I understand why you wish to show them these dreams, but you know . . . You know that there are only years remaining to the bond between the sons of Odin. There is nothing you can do when Skuld's die has already been cast."

"That was but one vision," Anann said sharply. "The Nornir have been wrong before – they will be wrong again. Even Frigg herself has woven a different future."

"She has weaved several futures," Macha said sharply. "Are you ready to accept the burden of seeing a worse future traded for one even more so?"

"I am ready to accept the fact that I have done all I have can to keep Yggdrasil from being torn from her roots. I . . . I understand, as do we all, the horrors of war – the blood spilled by mortal kind birthed us. And yet, to imagine that kind of horror starting from the roots of dear Yggdrasil up . . . No."

"And so you will force Odin's hand?" Macha said, one last attempt.

"I will do what he is not strong enough to do on his own," Anann said finally. She winced, hissing in a breath as she looked down to her hand. She unwound the wool, and saw the the skin beneath was blackened, pulsing with Mara's touch. The second vision had taken the most of her warmth, and to know . . .

"Loki has broken free," she whispered, unable to speak past an exhale. "Thor was able to reach him."

Macha was silent for a moment, a shadow clouding her normally clear eyes. "Of that, I am glad." The vision given to the second son was one she would envy no man, even steel blooded as she was. "And the lady?" she asked.

"The Trickster goes to her now," Anann whispered. "Be silent, and we shall see."

When her hand recovered enough, she stood, and picked up the two goblets. One shimmered with a faint mist about the rim. The other did not. She walked to the altar, and shooed her sister from its surface. Macha made a face, and leapt down, making room for her sister.

Anann placed the chalices down, her eyes shadowed with an old and primal magic. The one horn she released as soon as it was steady upon the stone, the other her hand still head steady. She raised her free hand, and called her staff to her; the enchanted hook rising at her biding.

The dead skin of her hand pulsed upon the staff when she closed her eyes and chanted an incantation. Her voice was throaty – the dying rasp of foot soldiers left to bleed upon the field, and the crack of steel upon steel as the wine in the goblet hissed and spewed angrily. The runes upon the altar glowed golden. Her shepherd's hook was a flame in her hand.

Finally, the crescendo broke; the steam hissed, and then cooled, suddenly defeated.

Anann released the goblet, her whole frame braced wearily against the altar. Her eyes though, were satisfied. The skin at her hand cracked, the sound of ice breaking from the shelf. She clenched it, made it a fist.

She glanced to her third, and said, "Badb, if you please – I wish to see the progress of our shield sister."

Badb inclined her head in half a bow, the movement throwing a shadow over the pallid tones of her face. A slip of a wing and the cry of the crow, and then she took to the sky.

 

.  
.

The shadows around her had grown.

Sif could not see her own hand before her, let alone a path. Darkness held her completely in its embrace, smothering in its absoluteness. While she could not see her step, she knew she held her glaive in her hand - she could feel the leather hilt of it, warmed by her palm. Her hands told her it was there when her eyes said no – for no sliver of light reflected off of her steel. It was as if she had been swallowed by the dark parts of the universe; as if the light had forgotten that she was there to shine on . . .

Sif did not exist in that moment. She called, and no one heard. No one listened. Alone, she was _alone_ – and how the thought cut through her like a blade through silk – tearing asunder without resistance. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, and her throat was so very dry, refusing to aid her as she tried to form words – questions.

"Loki?" his name fell from her lips. "Why did you leave me alone?" She listened to hear her own voice, but to her horror, no sound escaped her lips when she spoke. She was mute to the air before her.

"Loki?!" she tried calling again. But her breath left her in silence. Sound was lost to her as the darkness stole even her voice.

"Loki?" Again, silence.

Real fear spiked through her then – and the burn of it was such a foreign emotion to her as it broke sour and sharp upon her tongue. She was soundless, her voice lost, and where her eyes had naught to see, her mind spun its own images. Unbidden, she thought of Loki bowing before the court, forced to his knees between two guards as dwarfish manacles about his hands bound his magic to him. She remembered the reflection of pale gold – golden twine, sewing shut the mouth of the second son.

Fandral's fingers had dug into her skin at the time, but she had not noticed as he kept her demure and silent alongside the warriors of the court. How her heart had ached, how she had tasted copper when she bit her own tongue at the sight – her mouth had filled, but that had been nothing as compared to the blood Loki had choked on, the long lines of his throat swallowing without will. How red the dwarf's hand was when it was drawn away, how bloody Loki's now permanent smile . . .

Worse than the golden laces, she could so clearly remember the hatred that had crossed in Loki's eyes then. How she had wondered when the dwarf did not burn with such a gaze, verdant with all of the fires of Múspellsheimr within. She had not known Loki capable of such a look, such a hate . . . How the hate had deepened not with the prick of the needle, but with the laughter of the court for its second son . . .

Frigg had left the her husband's court when the sentence had been passed, her anger known loudly to all. Thor had stood numbly by his father's side - horror on his face, and fists clenched tightly at his sides. For all of his bluster, he often found the unthinkable far from his mind - he had not the capacity for the darkest of thoughts, the most unseemly of betrayals. And yet, Loki had seen none of his family, but for Odin severe as he declared that his youngest would see his debt through.

Sif's fingers had shook when she had cut the laces from him later, and she had apologized for every slip of her fingers, hating how her feeling made them clumsy, slick with his blood and by Yggdrasil eternal, but how could there have been _so much of it_ . . .

Loki had been silent long after his mouth was free. Silent as she dried his wounds and traced the angry gashes left from the incisions. Silent as she kissed the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his throat, not daring to touch his lips. How she had _hated_ his silence then. How she had burned with it as he had burned without his voice.

He was still scarred from that particular punishment, and he used charms to daily disappear the tangible marks of his failure. Her fingers itched, and she curled the hand that was not firm about her glaive; wishing to relive the memory of scarred skin under her fingers. It was a caress she knew well.

Sif swallowed against the stone in her throat, and sucked in a deep breath at the taste that greeted her. She lifted a hand to her lips, and found them bloody to the touch. She tasted copper on her tongue. Could taste his disgrace and fear and hatred, and a part of her understood as she never had before.

Her hand faltered upon her glaive. It clattered, and she knew that she stood upon solid ground when she knelt, alone in the never ending shadow around her. She lifted her hands to her lips, and they slipped. Her teeth knocked against her nails, she pressed but found no wound.

She traced her fingers up, and felt something wet at her cheek. If anything, the single tear made her feeling fan higher, burn hotter – cutting through her despair. It was rare that she shed tears . . . she had not cried since she had cut the twine from Loki, all those years ago – and it most certainly would not be a shadow that drew such from her now.

Sif wiped at her eyes, and narrowed her stare at the shadows around her.

As if sensing that she was recovering herself, the darkness swirled, crushing her with its weight. She could not breathe as it gave – as it parted, letting her see a grey tone of light ahead. Grey and sharp, like the smoke of a fire set to burn in the winter.

And so Sif followed the promise of light. Followed the smoke and ashen glow until she came upon a vision of her home . . .

Her home . . .

Before her, Asgard was gone - dust and ash blowing on the stiff breeze, all around. The ashes filled the very sea, making even the waves slow as they ached to roll in time to their immortal song. The bridges over the waterways that laced through Asgard like webs had been burned; even the bifröst no longer stood at its eternal post. Not a soul stirred. Whatever had ravaged Goðheimr had done so without thought for survivor or mercy.

A sound of horror was caught in her throat, but she could not push it past her lips. It was stuck, and she could give it no voice.

When she turned, she found that she was very small in comparison to the city around her. The blackness was lost to a shadow – she was the shadow. The shadow of a man . . . A man cloaked and concealed, but whose laughter sounded as sand being blown over bones. Next to him was Death, her form known to Sif as from the temple walls – half whole, and have decaying. Sif could make out little of her save for the white length of bared bone, a gently curving wrist, heavy with emeralds as a sign of the wealth of Hel's domain. Her face was turned from her, her expression absent. Death was silent while her companion continued to laugh; laugh and look out upon the wasteland of Asgard with cruel and satisfied eyes.

Sif tried to look up, to find a name to put to the being who held her in his shadow, but she could not see the figure's face. His identity was lost to her as he laughed and around them the ash of Asgard blew in a mockery of snowflakes upon the winter air.

The wind blew, and still the shadow held her tight.

Overwhelmed, Sif knelt down, looking past the pair to her ruined home. She let her eyes find the causeways she had walked so many times before - the Halls she had rejoiced in, the warrior's fields where she had trained in. All gone, all destroyed - only the bare husks of buildings left as the weeds after the harvest. She could spy her room in the palace, and no light burned there. Asgard, ever gold, had been extinguished, and Sif was left with ice in the core of her. She could not seem to warm herself . . . there was no feeling in her limbs.

Almost desperately, she held in on herself, trying to find a way around the bubble of despair that was rising in her throat. The feeling that was suffocating her. The silence was ringing in her ears.

"Sif?" a voice whispered across the wind to her.

She blinked at it, as drowsy as a hunting animal awakening to the spring. She was silent still.

"Sif?" That voice, again. She knew that voice. His name echoed in her throat, bidding her to rise, to break free.

But he had left her alone . . . He had left her alone, and now Asgard dwelt in ashes.

She shook her head, her glaive warm in her hand as she tried to make sense of what was around her. Her thoughts moved slowly, as if through a great mire – like trying to swim in full armor, weighed down by the waves.

"Sif, you must listen to me – follow my voice, and try to wake; break free."

She could follow his voice, but he could not follow hers. She could not announce her location. She could not be found. She was simply a forgotten shadow to a nameless man who laughed and laughed and _laughed_ as Asgard burned. Such hate she had glimpsed in his eyes . . . had his lips bled with his words as well?

" _Sif_ ," the voice again. Sharper than before.

She followed the blow of it – as if it had physically struck her. She rose to it, supported by shaking knees. How the thought had scared her so . . . alone and forever so. Why did such a thought scare her? She pondered that, thinking of the voice who spoke to her – _Loki_ , her mind knew him as well as she knew her own name. Knew his skin and bones as well as he knew hers. He would never leave her . . . would never abandon her. The vision she had before her was just that, a vision.

She would never be alone while with him. Asgard would never fall – they would not let it.

She worked her throat, and gathered up her famed courage – her steel and her warring heart and her fire cast veins – and screamed. The sound was liberating, tearing through the shadow of the man – through the grim cast of Death. She _screamed_ and the shadow fell, and for a moment she saw Asgard wink gold at her as the vision let her fall away.

She awakened to Loki's concerned eyes verdant and aflame with magic before her, Thor ever vigilant at his back.

Such affection welled up in her at that moment – with Loki's hands cool against her face, wet with the shadowed pool's water, and Thor's exuberant grin growing until it was seemingly worn from his ears. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around each of them in that moment – she wanted to laugh. Her voice hummed in the back of her throat, and she welcomed it there. Loki shifted before her, raising to help her stand. Her legs were liquid for a moment before she steeled herself, rooted her stance as if an oak striking the ground deep.

Her hands were still in Loki's. His grasp was so very tight, a desperation that he expressed in the only way he knew to them in that moment. She wanted to kiss him then – to wrap herself around him like ivy to a stone, and tell him that she was okay. It was only a vision she had seen. Images and words had no power to hurt her.

Or him. Any of them.

He still wore whatever it was that he had seen in his own vision in the deep parts of his gaze. Worried, Sif lifted her hand to touch his face, her thumb resting right below his eyes.

"My lady, you are well?" Thor's voice was pained, true with his worry for them both.

She moved a pace away from Loki at Thor's voice, his tight grip falling from her hands as he too stepped away. Still, she smiled at them both the best she could. "Indeed I am," she said, throwing her nose in the air. "As if a little pool of water could defeat me so." Defeat any of them so.

"Indeed," Thor agreed. "Still . . . it was a worthy test," his tone was grudging, his gaze turning to the canopy of trees above as if he could see Anann there, watching and judging his worth by the strength and shape of his fears – and their triumph over them. There was the call of a crow from above them, echoed down between the boughs and the limbs of the timeless sentinels around them.

Thor's grin turned to smirk at the sound of Badb above, no doubt reporting to her others. "Imagine the tales we will have to tell of this one."

Sif nodded her head, but did not agree. She did not want to speak of her vision again – did not want to think of her voice lost and herself left alone in the shadow of Asgard's destroyer. No. Never again. Still, she inclined her head to Thor, feeling the weight of her armor against her body and her shield against her back. Indeed, for the moment she was untouchable. She took comfort in that.

Loki was watching them both, his eyes hooded. "Then, if we are ready," he tipped his hand to the path, which was soon free of the shadowed pools ahead.

"Yes," Thor clapped his brother on the back. "We have little time to waste. Twilight comes upon us all."

"Yes, it does," Loki muttered, his gaze slipping from both of them to look at the pools they had all just defeated.

Thor marched on ahead, once again all the strength and boisterous of a spring storm. Loki was slower to follow, the pools still ensnaring his gaze.

"You aren't thinking of going back for another dip?" she tried to let herself jest when Thor was far enough from them to not hear the syllables of their speech.

Loki was silent, his gaze lost to her. She once more threaded her hand through his own – the only comfort allowed to them with another presence so close.

And then Sif dared to ask on a whisper, "What was it that you saw?"

Loki's hand tightened over her own. "Nothing of consequence," he muttered, and then his touch fell away from her.

Sif frowned, wishing to pry more. But later. She fisted her hands by her side and willed herself to forget the desperate hold of him.

Ahead of them, Thor marched. And, as always, they turned from the shadows to follow.

 

.  
.

They did not reach the glade of Cúchulainn until the sun was just starting to touch the horizon beyond, flooding the sky with the flaming banners of twilight.

Anann and her sisters had already gathered, obviously in wait. The promise of the dying light beyond had added a mysticism to the women – goldening Badb's dead face, and heightening the flame that fueled Macha's eyes. Anann stood between both her sisters, no disapproval, nor approval upon her face as they made it to the final chapter of the quest.

"You cut your time close, Odinson," Macha couldn't help but grin, her teeth a very white slash in the setting light.

"And yet, on time I have arrived," there was a mighty scowl upon the Thunderer's brow – it darkened upon returning Macha's words. Thor had lost any levity over the Quest that he had had to begin with after the thieving pools, and in the shadow he cast, Loki and Sif were a solemn silence to match him.

Macha stepped forward, as if she would say more, but Anann held a hand. Macha stilled. "Peace, sister," she said softly. "They have made it far."

Anann stepped forward, her sisters taking point behind her much as Loki and Sif flanked Thor. "You have proven your cunning and your courage. Now, you must prove your right to lead."

"Then test me thus," Thor said, the vowels falling from between his teeth like blows.

Anann inclined her head. "Come then."

She gestured with her shepherd's hook to further within the clearing, to where there had been a stone altar erected. The stone had etched into its surface the same runic letters that they had all become familiar with, but now rather than hide their mysticism, they fairly pulsed with it – giving off a warm halo to the approaching evening. Upon the mouth of the altar, there were two chalices, the gold of the cups glinting like a wink.

Anann lead them to the altar, and then gestured to the chalices. "Within each there is wine. But in one only there is a toxin – a venom, fatally brewed. All of the wine must be consumed should you pass my test. And you, Thor Odinson, will determine who drinks which." She tilted her hand, mockingly benevolent before her. "The poison is tasteless. Odorless. Colourless. Decide which is tainted, and drink."

Thor's reaction was sudden and fiery. "And you expect us to willingly swallow your poison?" he turned from the altar, rounding angrily on Anann. "That is madness!"

Anann was silent, her eyes weighing.

"No," Thor shook his head when she said nothing, brow furrowed crossly. "I will not have dragged my companions so far to risk their lives so now. You speak of worth – but is it worthy to demand blood so? It is a waste you demand of us."

"You ask such where you took blood more easily than even I, Odinson," and for the first, Anann's voice was sharp – like the crackle of steel meeting steel. "If the requirements of my quest ask too highly, then declare yourself unworthy of the blood you spilled, and live with your curse in silence." Her eyes flashed, fervid, and Sif was reminded of Odin in that moment – of feeling small in the shadows his war helmet cast.

Loki stepped forward, holding out a hand out upon Thor's forearm to calm his brother. Thor tensed under the touch, but he did not move away from his second. "You say this test is true," he spun his words. "And how is worth chosen over this?"

Anann held his gaze, level and bold. "Do you trust your brother?" she asked then, rather than answer him.

"I trust my brother with my life," Loki declared, and there was no waver within his eyes, no silver upon his tongue – just true words honestly spoken, and Sif hoped to Odin that they would be enough to prove the character that Anann would let live.

"Then prove your truths," Anann bowed her head, gesturing to the altar before her. "Whomsoever drinks of the chalices will prove the worth of a leader. A prince. A king." There was a promise in her voice. Prophesy, even.

"I would drink rather than they," Sif declared, moving to step past Thor and Loki both, but there was a grip at her elbow, staying her. Macha held one arm, her callused fingers strong. Badb was a silent shadow – a threat thrown across them all, like a crow circling the battlefield at her left.

"This is not a test for steel, or War," Anann said in a soft voice. "And this, Lady Týrdottir is not your truth to be had. There are two chalices – each for a son of Odin."

Sif narrowed her eyes, but stepped back, her knuckles a white grip upon the hilt of her glaive. Macha released her, but did not step more than a pace away.

Thor stayed straight and still, not looking down at the poisoned chalices, but straight into Anann's eye. Around the stone setting, Loki started to circle like a caged beast, his eyes crinkling thoughtfully as he looked to decipher which was poisoned and which was not.

"I believe," the second son said with a forced lightness, "that she would place the poisoned goblet before you – she likes me more, brother."

Still, Thor was silent, his eyes burning.

Loki's eyes narrowed as he came to a pause, his stride ending thoughtfully. With steady hands he reached out and poured one goblet of wine into the other. Sif caught a glimpse of the liquid, so very dark – like blood poured after the sun had fled.

"Brother?" Thor finally looked over to him, his voice a question. "What are you doing?"

"All of the wine must be drank, and there is no question over who must return home," Loki said softly, his voice solemn and calm in a counterpoint to the red flare of feeling that slashed harshly across Thor's face as soon as understanding hit.

"Brother, that is madness," Thor protested hotly as to Loki's intentions. He moved to take a step forward, a hand held before him as if the wrench the cup from his brother's grasp - but he could not move. His great limbs were stuck, like an oak tree – firmly rooted. He made a darkly comical picture, huge and powerful, but useless against a bond he could not see.

Sif stirred as well, her blood as hot as Thor's, only to find that the same spell had trapped her. She fought against the charm, but her limbs struggling uselessly. She could not move, and even her throat worked uselessly around her words. Loki would not hear from her in that moment, and Sif fought wildly against the spell, something desperate and sour rising in her throat as she remembered her vision – her useless voice and her useless steel, and all she loved in ashes around her.

Loki's eyes flared green, an easy symbol of his magic, and Thor bellowed: "Brother, you will drop this enchantment now!"

"And let you do something foolish?" Loki returned, shrugging off the other's order. "I think not."

He raised the goblet to his lips, but did not drink; his eyes slanted across to hers, and she locked his gaze as if she were an archer taking aim, begging with her eyes where he would not allow her to with words. For, surely if she spoke, he would come undone. His gaze was oddly naked in that moment – open as she so rarely saw him. Then he blinked, and he was cast from stone before her once more.

He would truly . . .

"Besides, there will be no living with Father if you are not returned home." And with that, Loki threw back the poisoned wine, and drained it in a single gulp.

"No!" Sif finally felt her voice break free of the enchantment, the wards breaking as soon as he had swallowed the wine. "Brother!" Thor shouted at the same time, terror a broken chain linking their words together.

Almost primly, Loki placed the goblet back down upon the altar. The inscriptions upon the stone were so very bright. "It is a good vintage," he said with a black humor. "A pity, too -" and his words were lost to him as he slumped forward, catching himself against the stone altar.

As he faltered, his enchantments fell completely, and as soon as Sif felt her limbs under her own control, she leapt forward to catch him before he completely fell. He was a stone in her grasp, inelegant as he was so very rarely.

Thor had bypassed his brother entirely to stand up before Anann, grasping the slight woman by her collar and hoisting her up until her feet dangled from the ground.

Loki was so still in her arms. His breathing was shallow. His pulse was a weak cadence, faltering and dimming. Sif had felt such before – had seen life slip away like a ripple upon the water. But not here, not now. "Loki?" she pressed almost desperately, slapping his face and rocking his still form. But not a whisper. Not a movement.

"You, witch," Thor very nearly growled, "will fix the harm you have done." Above them the sky trembled. Sif felt the first spattering of rain strike against her skin, her armor, as Thor's rage drove the approaching storm above.

And only then did Anann's gaze soften. "One who would have those he would lead sacrifice so are worthy," and as she said so, Sif watched as the boils faded from Thor's skin. His hair filled back in, his eyebrows regrew to furrow in a mighty glare – not noticing the absence of the curse's hold as his brother's life hung on a precipice before him.

"And my brother?" Thor hissed. The sky above them lightened in a counterpoint.

"Your worth was proved," Anann said. She moved the hand that had not been holding her shepherd's staff in order to hand Thor a small vial, in which a clear liquid swam. "This will cure the venom's hold. His is a soul which I would not take from you."

Thor released her, flinging her away to be caught by Macha and Badb. Impatiently, Sif took the vial from Thor as soon as he was close enough, uncorking it with one hand as she cradled Loki's head with the other. It was a trick to get him to swallow the antidote as he was, but between her and Thor they managed.

She waited, her breath baited and her grip about Loki still desperate. She caressed almost absently at the sweaty hair that had fallen over his forehead. His skin was still so very pale, his closed eyes like bruises in the pallid expanse of his face. He still did not stir. His pulse did not leap. His eyes did not open, and _why would not his eyes open_?

"Loki?" Sif whispered brokenly, feeling something hot and urgent settle in her throat. "Loki, you will wake up this instant, or so help me . . ." the threat faded, useless on her tongue. For what would Sif do? Sif with her steel and her mighty words, but Loki lost from her . . .

She looked up at Thor. "It is not working." She did not recognize her own voice. It was a desperate, pleading woman who spoke so. _Fix this_ , her eyes begged him.

Thor was quick upon his feet, like a viper striking. Again he thundered before Anann – Anann who looked as stricken as Sif had seen her yet.

Something was wrong . . .

"I do not understand," Anann whispered. "It . . . this was brewed from the waters of Múspellsheimr itself for the children of the flame. It was perfectly crafted for a son of the Aesir – it should not fail to heal one of Asgard's children."

"Obviously," Thor raged, "it has so failed. You must have some other way to heal him – to give back what you have taken."

"I . . ." and here Anann closed her eyes long and slow. When she opened them, Sif cared not for the shade of them – the sympathy . . . and sorrow. "It is not your worth that mattered," she said hollowly, as if she had figured out a riddle long eluding her. "My sympathies, Thor, son of Odin, but where you have proved your worth, I fear that there is a deeper stain here . . . A blight I am not at liberty to lift or ease away."

Thor shook his head. "Your riddles are not good enough," he cried. "Speak clearly, and restore my brother."

"Your brother," Anann whispered, her tongue turning the syllables in a way Sif could not interpret. "No . . . he is past my power to heal now." Her hands were white upon her staff. Her sisters were a shield at her back, the incredulous expressions on their faces fading to masks – stiff and unwavering.

They would find no quarter there, Sif finally understood. There was nothing more the Mórrigan could do.

"Then your own blood will join his," Thor declared, Mjölnir in his hands as the storm crackled angrily overhead. The rain was falling in sheets now – the wind drove it like daggers, and Sif held Loki closer to her as if to shield him.

Thunder crackled as he advanced, and Sif finally cried, "Thor! There is no time for that – Loki, we have to get him to Asgard. Eir might . . . there is still hope." His heart still beat - sluggishly, but it beat. There was a breath upon his lips. There was a chance that he could again open his eyes for her.

Her words cut through Thor's battle haze, and just as quickly the storms died away as Thor returned to her. There was steel in his gaze as he knelt down again next to her, his one hand heavy upon her shoulder, and his other shaking as he clasped Loki's still hands.

Thor called for Heimdall, and around Sif, her world turned white as she was called back home, Loki still in her arms and a prayer long and pleading upon her lips.


	5. silent your secret falls

In the center of the Hall of Éljúðnir, there was a place permitted to Death, and Death alone.

There was a circular Chamber of Souls, held upright by nine golden columns. Each column represented each of the Nine realms, and within each column, a sea of stars floated and flew. There were steps leading down to a pool, pervading the whole of the room. The pool held naught but the dark ether of space, and the magical orbs of light that traveled to Helheimr no matter what they did to stay their course. The columns were ornate and graceful, giving the illusion of supporting the night sky itself.

In the center of the pool, Death reigned. She could call no soul – the millions of pinpricks of light around her, but she could feel them all. She could feel as they came closer, could watch as their lives flickered and blinked – as they finally winked out and she caught each and every one as her own. The pool was all dark indigos and violets and the darkest cast of black – gold shining beneath all where the roots of the great Yggdrasil ended, and gave way to the nothingness of the cosmos beyond.

Death was nothing more than an extension of her roots here, the dark cast of her hair and cloak painted dark to match the void over which she reigned. How the light of the souls graced her as she held out a delicate hand. How it brightened her, as if to give her one of her own.

To the side of the pool, the Hound waited with the scale, ready to take the souls to Hel's court for their final judgment. Ready to lead those worthy to the halls of Odin's own in Valhalla. Ready to leave those walking the every day yoke of life to Helgafjell, where they would find their After in peace. Ready to lead those evil and unworthy to the shores of Náströnd and the gnawing dragon, ready to consume them there.

But Death was not there to see what Móðguðr had for her to offer today. Instead she waded through the ocean of stars, and sought one light in particular.

By her right hand, there was such a star; a sun to the mortal souls swimming, one of millions. She touched the verdant light, and felt it pulse on her fingertips. Her own heart beat in time with this light. She was _part_ of this light.

Death cupped her hand, and brought the sun up before her eyes. How the light now flickered . . . It drew so close to the reach of Móðguðr and her bridge. How selfish was the keeper of of the veil; how easy it was to pass through her guard . . .

The light flickered, closer.

Death breathed in deep, and felt her own heart seize.

Slowly, she turned, and walked towards the Hound. Her hair was black as the void between souls, and some of the lights caught there – clung to her cloak and her dress, covering her as the stars did the night sky. She felt all of their pain. Their suffering. Their struggles. Their triumphs. How their love and hate lingered with each soul even after all died and passed on to live life anew . . .

How Death had laughed when the skalds had penned her a cold and ominous being; how could she be, when she had felt every feeling possible to feel? When she had lived every life possible to live?

The light flickered in her hand. Death exhaled, wanting to keep the light burning on the kindle of her own heart.

But . . . she could not do so for too long. Eir's prayer hardly held the soul in stasis as it was.

The Hound bowed before her, and she waved the scale in his hands away.

“He does not yet fall – no matter what Mara may have told you,” said Death. “He breathes yet.”

The Hound looked to her, his golden eyes such a light in the darkness of her Hall. “He is stubborn,” gave he, and there was an old fondness in his voice as his eyes locked upon her own.

She sniffed, caressing one skeletal finger of her left hand over the orb in her right. How it shuddered, recognizing her.

The Hound looked down to the souls which had attached themselves to Death, and tilted his head when he saw another light – scarlet like an evening sun, attached so to Death's hand. It refused to leave when brushed away, and the soul shook with an agony that had Death's brow creasing.

She held the second soul in her left hand, and recognized that as well. A soul only quieted by the presence of the first. Both beat with the same light.

“You understand, do you not, the implications of this soul passing through your gates?” the Hound said, his voice ancient in the room of stars.

Death closed her eyes, long and slow, and felt the flesh that fell from the left half of her body burn. “I do.”

“He must live,” the Hound said on an exhale, his voice troubled.

“And how many times have you told me that life and death is not for me to decide? That my post is for the dead, and not the dying?” Death rebuked. “Even _his_ death will not effect me. Too much time has past. I am too tied to my realm to fade away due to a ripple in Time.”

The Hound moved to hold her right hand, still covered in the flesh of one living, flushed pink with the blush of blood. “I would not see you give up the last parts of yourself.”

Death leaned forward to cup the Hound's cheek with her left hand, a skeleton's caress found there. “No matter my appearance, I am still me beneath. Just Hel.” Both of the souls danced over the slender bones of her hand, painting her Hound's skin with their colours. How they so sang with each other. How Death had long known the chorus of their song, the steps of their dance . . .

“Hela,” the Hound sighed, the name an endearment on his lips.

And Death grinned a crooked grin. “Besides, you know much of these souls – of the Thunderer's soul, in particular. All is not lost. Not yet.”

Gently, she clasped the souls in her hands, her touch tender.

“There is always a way for life.”

 

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Eir was already silent and waiting besides Heimdall when the thunder of the bifröst released them once more upon Asgard's hallowed shores.

Sif knew not whether to thank her brother's sight, or Frigg's vision, and so she settled for silence as she trailed behind Thor – stronger than she, bearing the weight of his brother to Eir's Hall. The warm bronzes, and the thick curtain of incense and burning herbs assaulting her senses as soon as she entered the hall of healing.

“Poison,” she found the word slipping off of her tongue to Eir's ears when the healer asked how Loki came to harm. “The wine was touched with something – we know not what, and Loki drank all.”

Thor laid his brother down on one of the beds in Eir's hall with a gentleness that few would attribute to the Thunderer – smoothing out the black rise of Loki's jacket with strong hands as he said, “Anann administered an antidote to the poison. It failed.”

Eir glanced to Thor as he spoke before turning to the prince still before her. The gentle planes of her face were clouded with a thick worry.

“And yet, she seemed to be shocked of its failure,” Sif said softly, her brow creased in thought. It made no sense – truly it did not. Anann had no want for Loki's life, and the curse upon Thor had been truly lifted.

Eir's brow furrowed at that, and both Sif and Thor stepped a pace back to let the healer to their other. Eir was a fiercely lovely woman, daughter of one of the Firsts in the time of Bor himself, who had seen to the universe's creation. Her skin was rich and healthy, a dark shade of brown amongst the fair race of the Aesir. Her hair was as rich as the soil after the rain, watered down to the roots, falling over her shoulder in a thick rope of a plait. Through the thick band of it, the tips of her ears could be seen – pointed, betraying her Álfar heritage. Eir had been a daughter of the Álfar and Vanir both, and one of the first to move to Asgard when Frigg wed Odin, and took up reign as Queen. Her connection to the wooded race was what gave her her skill as a healer – being bound to the powers of the seiðr as all of her sisters were.

She wore the white robes of a healer, dyed a deep scarlet about the neck and sleeves to denote her rank as master amongst her apprentices. Her belt was weighed down with pouches of herbs and healing stones, and she smelled sweetly of her potions.

Sif had never had a scrape or injury that Eir had been unable to aid – but this was different. So very different. She clasped her hands together, bouncing her weight up and down on the balls of her feet as she fought the urge to kneel with the healer at Loki's side. She wished to keep one of his hands in her own.

Instead, she stood as a comrade only, and watched Eir as she worked.

Eir leaned over Loki's still form, a golden mist about her fingertips as she chanted under her breath. As she chanted, the mist swirled, the patterns and depth of it telling a tale that only Eir could tell. “His veins swim with venom,” she said, confirming their story. Her voice was thick with worry. She moved to take Loki's hand in her own, her strong fingers pressing at his wrist, feeling his pulse. “A slow moving venom, and yet it is sure of its course.” She looked up at them. “Do you know what poison was used?”

Thor shook his head, but passed Eir the chalice from the Mórrigan. “No,” he said, his voice rugged from his throat. “But Anann bid us take this. She said you would understand.”

Eir raised a brow as she took the chalice. At her touch, golden runes flared about the rim of the horn, and she sucked in a breath. “Anann,” Eir said on a sigh.

“You have a familiarity with this witch?” Thor asked, his eyes cloudy with the remnants of his anger.

“I taught Anann this spell centuries ago, during the Great War,” Eir said as she placed the chalice down. “I never thought that I would be seeing to one of her victims after so much time has passed.”

Thor was silent, and Eir darted a glance to him. “Many allies, from many realms, were sought when the creatures of snow and ice invaded Midgard's shores. The Mórrigan were some of the strongest Odin aligned himself with . . . indeed, it did seem as if I spent as much time healing as inflicting injury in those days.”

Sif bit her lip. “Then you are familiar with healing this wound?”

“It is a curse as much as it is a poison,” Eir said, her old voice worried. She waved a hand, and her mist disappeared from about Loki's body. “The water mixed with this wine was from the same tributary that feeds Mimir's well – combine that with the blood of war, and any venom from a mythical creature . . .”

“Like a hippogryph,” Sif muttered, remembering the gleam of the stallion's horns.

“Like a hippogryph,” Eir inclined her head. “It is a deep spell, but one simply fixed. The spell attacks the foundation of a being's elemental makeup. It tears at the soul until water from one of the worlds of creation is applied.”

“Then why did the waters of Múspellsheimr not heal him?” Thor asked.

Eir shrugged, her eyes troubled. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, when at the entrance to her hall there was another shadow.

The queen's normally graceful glide was a quick clip as she crossed the healing room to her sons. Her eyes were shadowed with worry, not even the warm light all about them warming them. Her fingers where white knuckled as she took in the sight of her child – pale, even more so than normal, and so very still, his pulse a lazy cadence at his neck.

A deep breath. “What ails him?” so asked Frigg.

“Poison,” Eir said, her eyes careful upon the gaze of her queen. “Anann's.”

Frigg reached over, and took her son's hand. It was cool, clammy in the warmth of Eir's chamber. “And the elemental waters have not healed him?”

Eir shook her head slowly. “Anann's antidote failed.” There was something flickering in the healer's eyes, something Sif could not identify as she seemed to communicate silently with the other woman.

Frigg's concern turned to stone then, her worried ministrations to her son lost as she looked up to the healer. “The waters of the Overway,” she muttered. “Of course.”

Eir nodded, holding up the vial that Anann had given to them. “The antidote was brewed properly, the curse of poison set to be carefully lifted once more. There is . . . there is nothing I can do, my lady.”

Frigg nodded, biting her lower lip. “I understand.”

“I can slow the poison's hold,” Eir said, the kind planes of her face troubled. “But I cannot cease it . . . I can merely put his body in a stasis, until another antidote can be found. I will go to my volumes, and see if there is another way – often, there is for those patient enough to look.”

Frigg's smile was thankful. “I thank you, my friend.” Her gaze slipped over her son, shadowed as she took in the stillness of him. Her eyes then paused on Sif, stopped on Thor. “I must inform your father of what has occurred,” she said, her words spoken as though her mind was far from them all.

She turned to leave, and her son followed. “Mother,” Thor stopped Frigg, his hand massive on the delicate curve of her arm. “I am so, very sorry. It is my fault -”

“Hush,” Frigg breathed the word like absolution. “There is no fault to assign, no blame to take. Your brother merely did for you what you would have done for him.”

“He never would have been to the Mórrigan's moon if not for -”

“- it is a foolishness you have repented for,” Frigg interrupted. She had reached out to take his hands in her own. His grip swallowed hers, his form dwarfed her, but still Thor seemed to swim small in her gaze. “Loki's choice was his own to accompany you – to aid you so. Accept it as such, and move forward – no matter what direction that may be.”

Thor nodded, the bobbing of his head small and child like. Sif felt her chest ache for her friend, as if some large creature had thrown its weight against her. She braced her feet a shoulder's width apart, finding her balance.

Frigg tightened her small hands over Thor's, a mother's smile meant to comfort on her face before she turned to walk away. She always was such a graceful thing, seemingly blown by the sea wind from beyond rather than held down by the weight of the air above.

Eir watched her sovereign leave, the corner of her mouth hooked before she released a breath she had been holding as a sigh. Sif turned at the sound, found the healer, and found Loki within her gaze. The weight upon her chest grew, fit to strangle.

“Is there anything we can do?” Sif asked, as restless as an arrow, poised to shoot, but she had no aim. Her fists clenched and unclenched; her feet rooted her against moving. Still, she did not take Loki's hand in her own.

Besides her, she could feel the heat of Thor returned to her side. She did not turn to meet his gaze.

“Pray,” Eir said simply after the silence had stretched beyond. “Hel hears all, and she can keep his soul in stasis better than even I.”

Sif swallowed past the lump in her throat. Hel was always a woman for the mortal kind to fear and worship. She was always so far from the warrior race of the Aesir, who lived to times indefinite unless it was by blade they were felled; and once felled into Valhalla the soldiers marched. Hel was never the one Sif thought to meet at the end of her life.

“I have never said my graces to the mistress of Niflheimr,” Sif said, the title heavy on her tongue.

“I have, many times,” Eir said, her old voice weary – for she had seen much of death in her Hall. Much of life, as well. The woman was weaving her hands in a complicated pattern, and at her touch, the mists grew around her friend – pulsing and golden, like a shield. Sif started when she recognized the shield that held great Odin when he slept in his enchanted slumber. Stasis, Eir had said that she could hold Loki in, slowing the toxin and delaying his death. But once lifted . . .

Sif set her mouth like a shield before the thought. She would not think of that, not yet.

Sif stepped closer to Loki's side, close enough for the wisps of gold to rise and brush her own skin, leaving static in their wake. Thor was half a step behind her, she could feel his gaze on his brother, felt it as it met her own.

And Eir prayed.

“Fearsome Hel,” Eir bowed her head as she wove her magic, “grant this soul your strength. Be blind to him, and let him fall not into your grace.”

And Sif whispered, close enough to Loki's side so that the side of her last finger brushed his own. “Fearsome Hel, ninth realm be blessed . . .”

 

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“The waters of Múspellsheimr did not heal him,” said Frigg first as she marched into the Hall of Valaskjálf - her husband's throneroom where he sat about governing their realm and all others. Her hair was a halo of lightning about her in the half light, her robes billowing as she cast a shadow large enough to rival that of her husband, still and mighty upon the throne Hliðskjálf.

Odin turned his one eye to her, the light from the cosmos beyond reflected there. “Eir was unsuccessful then?”

Frigg inhaled deep through her nose, “Eir can do naught when her tongue is tied by our secrets. By our deeds and shames.” Eir, one of Frigg's dearest of ladies, had delivered Thor, that dark night on Vanaheimr so long ago. Eir had been there when Odin had brought the shadowed babe from Jötunnheimr, not even seven days later. In those early years, she had been both sanity and friend to her queen as she helped with the trials of raising a child so far from home.

Odin was silent, his body a bowstring, pulled tight.

And Frigg continued. “The water of Múspellsheimr may heal a child of flame – one of Asgard's sons. But for Loki, it will not . . . He is not born of fire. He needs the waters of Niflheimr. His life can be restored only from the icy waters of the Underway.”

And still Odin was silent. Frigg feared the turn of his decision even before it was spoken. She took a step forward, not daring to breach the steps between them. Still, she did not bow; as one of his subjects, pleading. She held her head high, and allowed her face to catch the light.

“And the Underwater may not be accessed without express permission of Hel herself,” Odin said, his voice a blade being struck against a whetstone. “Which I cannot allow.”

Frigg shook her head, meeting the fire of her husband's gaze with the flint like one of her own. “Such a venture will save my son – will save _our_ son,” she held her hands before her stomach as if it were truly of her womb that Loki was born – rather than just her heart. “My son,” she pleaded, her voice catching in her throat. “ _My son_ so much that it is if I, rather than Nál, had bore him.”

Odin's gaze softened, whether at her pain or his own, Frigg knew not – could tell not. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, weighed down by his decision. “He is not ready to know the secrets of Niflheimr.”

“Then he need not know!” Frigg exclaimed. “Hel swore by the ichor in Yggdrasil's boughs – she will breathe not a word of her heritage.”

“And look where she was begotten that tongue of hers!” Odin finally spoke sharply. “Do you trust a word the daughter of the Liarsmith has to say?”

“That is but a prophesy's title,” Frigg hissed between her teeth, her hands clenched as her fury mounted. “It is not a title of the boy we have, here and now, with us. Hel will hold her secrets. She will not risk the Ancient's premature fury.”

“Yet, prophesy tells a different story,” Odin challenged. “A story of Loki, backed with the armies of Hel, marching against Asgard eternal . . .”

“That is but one Norn prophesy,” Frigg shook her head, unmovable as stone at the old argument. “I have woven many a future – and there is a way to circumvent the Twilight while still keeping our son.”

“And you expect me to take that chance – with Asgard's fate in the balance? I will not trust these realms to the role of dice.” Odin's words were final, and still Frigg bristled – needing first father and husband rather than sovereign and king.

“It is for Asgard that I would see the brightest possible future pursued,” Frigg said lowly. “You trust naught the strength of your son.”

“I know exactly my son's strength,” Odin returned, his voice rising. The torches lining the chamber rose in time with his anger. “And he would crumble under such a revelation.”

“He shall not!” Frigg insisted. “Now with knowing the strength of his family's regard for him. Not while knowing just how far we would go to keep him with us.”

“And do you trust such a regard to hold under the weight of the truth?” Odin returned. “Do you trust Thor not to blink twice at having a son of the Jötnar as blooded kin? Trust the daughter of Týr to still hold so pretty a smile, rather than disgust, for him? Do you trust Asgard not to whisper? Do you know your son to be strong enough to not bend under that weight? For him to break is for the Twilight to descend upon us all.”

“I trust Thor's heart,” Frigg exclaimed sharply. “I trust brave Sif to hold the courage we have long held her in esteem for. And I trust Asgard to be a realm of the elite, and welcome what we have called our own.”

“Then you are naive,” Odin hissed. “And I will not allow your softness for the boy lead to this realm's destruction.”

“You are his _father_!” Frigg suddenly screamed, emotion a raging thing in her voice. “You took that right from Laufey, took this decision from his kin as soon as you bound him in illusion and a false name! Now, you shall honor that title – that _responsibility_. Let go of your pride and your fear, and _save your child_.”

“Saving one will bring destruction upon all,” Odin matched her tone. “He cannot handle the knowledge of his heritage. It is for _my_ son, for _my_ bride, for _my_ people and all of the realms that I make such a decision – and I do not make it lightly.”

Frigg thought of her false son, pale and clouded by Eir's charms; and set her jaw, made her eyes a shield and her words a stone. “Shame upon you, Odin Borson, for the path you would set us all upon. You know not what your actions will wrought.” When she spoke, her mouth was filled with prophesy, and it rang sharper than her words loudly spoken.

And from the entrance of the throne room, low and mocking clapping could be heard. King and queen both turned to the sound, startled at the interruption. In the golden shadows, and the turbulent cascade of the lighted cosmos, a small woman cast a long shadow, her eyes embers in the half light.

“My, but I have forgotten how one of your rows could be heard the very realms wide.” Anann, center cord of the Mórrigan let her voice ring out, her smile a sharp smirk and her hands still clasped coldly.

“You,” Odin hissed upon seeing her. “You caused this knowing full well of the results of your actions. Your visions, your poison,” Odin spat the word like a curse.

“I merely showed the three what you have naught the courage to show them.” Anann stepped closer to Odin upon his throne, her hands white knuckled on the curve of her shepherd's hook. “War has a way of catching up with us all, my friend – even when it seems that we have all paid its price twice and thrice over again.”

Odin stood then, rounding on shepherdess, his expression fierce. “It is not your place, witch, for you to lecture me on war's horrors.”

Anann merely stood straighter under his anger. “You are not the first of the Bor's blood to try to intimidate me as such this day - so curb your bite, Allfather, for you can strike me naught.”

The scowl on Odin's brow was a mirror of Thor's. Anann hitched the corner of her mouth upon seeing it as such. Before Odin could say more, she spoke, and said: “That boy you took from the ice is this realm's greatest hope. Thor is a sword, sharpened and ready to be aimed. He will be such a sun after your reign, Odin Borson; his light will touch everything now cast in shadow. But, light though he is, he cannot battle the evil that gnaws on the roots of great Yggdrasil alone. A sword is nothing against the Ancient's power. And so, where your realm was begotten in flame, so in flame it will be swallowed. It will take a healer's magic to save these lands – or, do you so quickly forget what blood gave you your second son?”

“Laufey?” Odin snorted. “His legacy is laughable.”

“And what of Nál Laufeysbride?” Frigg spoke then, still a viper, ready to lash at her husband. Her voice was forged iron. “She was the greatest enchantress these lands have ever seen – even Eir learned her art at her side.”

“Measures are being taken against the Twilight,” Odin still insisted, waving his hand at his queen's words. “My kingdom is not as defenseless as you think.”

“The reveling, muscle bound idiots who reside in Valhalla?” Anann barked a laugh. “Hel too has her ways, and I would take the soul of a plain man with everything to lose over one of your gluttonous warriors – drunk on ancient mead and the pleasures of the Valkyrie.”

“All are warriors you used to fight alongside -”

“ - and half are those I harvested from the battlefield myself,” Anann cut in sharply. “You know as well as I that your army can only hope for a stalemate upon the Twilight. All will die; good and evil, unless a new path is struck now.”

“Asgard is not ready to know!” Odin thundered at the implications in her words. “ _Loki_ is not ready to know.”

“Loki is not ready, or you are not ready?” Anann challenged. “The longer you withhold the truth, the greater the blow will be.”

“Then he will die now, with the truth,” Odin declared, his voice iron. “But he will die with an honorable name – free of his role in the prophesy to come. He will die as my son, and as a favored one of Asgard. He will die embraced by the house of Odin.”

Anann fumed. “And that house will embrace naught the blood of Laufey, whom once you cherished?”

“Laufey took his stance against all we built for in these realms. He moved against me. Against Midgard -”

“ - and was punished accordingly,” Anann snapped. “We all remember the horror of the Great War, when Jötunnheimr waged war with the very stars. Do you wish for that to come again – but its horror increased a hundred fold on every realm?”

“I am staying war with my actions today!”

“And what happens if Loki does die? What happens if you surrender him to Hel's hall. For he shall learn the truth from Hel should you push her to that. What happens when she shows him the cloth of the Nornir? What happens when he sees just how you let him go due to his blood and his upcoming role in the Twilight? War comes from either path!” Anann finally cried. “My bones ache with the promise of it – great Yggdrasil herself cries with it! Níðhöggr growls his fury, and Veðrfölnir screams her warnings from between the eagle's eyes. Your shield-maiden – even she can feel the threat swallowing this land.”

“Enough!” Odin finally cried, his eyes sharp as he jabbed Grungnir down upon the bronze floor, hard enough for it to crack. Beyond them, the sky rumbled, the sea sloshed angrily in its cradle. Still, Anann stood to the soverign of Asgard with war in her eyes. “My decision is made. And it is final. Go back to your moon, daughter of Mórrigan, and pray that I still remember my debt to you.”

Anann bowed mockingly, “You kill us all with your blindness, Borson. Heed me, but you will regret this path once taken.”

“Then so be it,” Odin thundered. Steel rang in his words.

And Frigg flinched. She inclined her head, silent as she clenched her hands into fists, curbing her words.

Anann looked once at the queen, and then walked to the edge of the hall, and the balcony beyond. There, where the shadows of the throneroom met the dying sunlight, she let the air take her. A beating cadence of bird's wings, and the angry cry of the raven her last farewell. In the rafters high above them, Huninn and Muninn cawed angrily to match.

Odin was still, watching her shadow as she flew away.

“The waters of the Underway reside in the spring of Hvergelmir.” Hvergelmir, the river of icy water that played but one role in creation. The river that was the frozen heart of Niflheimr.

“So I know,” Frigg said.

“And then you know as well as I what resides at the mouth of that spring?”

“Níðhöggr's nest,” Frigg echoed hollowly. The great dragon who gnawed at the roots of the great Yggdrasil, whose evil souls from Hel's realm did naught to assuage his hunger. She remembered centuries ago, when the great dragon had been bound in the deep. When the Nornir had spoken their words, and the first step against the prophesy of Twilight had been taken.

“I will not ask _my_ son,” such an inflection in the word that Frigg winced upon it, “to make that journey – to fight that fight.”

“Your first, too, is strong,” Frigg said. “Thor will surprise all one day, even you.”

“And until that day,” Odin inclined his head, “I will not see his life spent on a fool's mission.”

Frigg opened her mouth to protest – did he not know how easily his one son would agree to fight to save the life of another? For wasn't that why Loki had fallen? Thor's fight had not been his to bear, but shared blood had made him take his brother's trials as his own. Long such was the right and reason of kindred. Such bonds would be the thing to break prophesy – to let life start anew when such ends seemed infalible.

She held her arguments in her eyes like spears when Odin finally said: “I will not be crossed on this.” There was a weight in the silence that stretched. Long and pregnant. “Am I understood?”

Still he looked to the cosmos beyond; more than ever he was a star to Frigg, the heat of him unreachable, but the light falling everywhere without escape.

And she bowed her head. “Yes, my lord.”

 

.  
.

Sif had exhausted her prayers to Hel, and now, she had nothing left to give.

Her tongue was tired. Her throat was parched from the power of her words. She ached as if struck, but she had no foe to strike back against. Her bruises were beneath her skin, her ache of the heart rather than that of a wound inflicted. Would that steel have stolen from her than such trickery, so that she would have blood to clean, a wound to sew.

Instead, there was only silence.

Candlemarks ago, Eir had left in a last attempt to find an answer in the depths of her tomes, with the healer's magicks that she held within her centuries. Sif prayed that she was successful, but hope was a weary beat within her breast.

Thor had fallen asleep the last candlemark, and Sif had yet to awaken him. He cast a darkly comic pose – the large form of him cramped in the small chair at his brother's bedside. His head had fallen from where he had propped it on his hand, and instead his head lobbed forward gracelessly against the steel of his chest plate. At any other time, Sif would have checked to see if he drooled there, ready so to tease her friend for more than his boisterous snores, but she could not bring herself to move. The Thunderer had yet to deposit of his battle armor, and Mjölnir was a silent sentinel at his side.

Sif too was still clad in her armor – dusty with the red soot of the Questing moon, and absent its gleam from the perils of their adventure. How far from them all that time now seemed, how meaningless the breaking of the curse seemed to now weigh.

Her hair fell in tangles before her eyes, loosened from its queue high atop her head. She let it hang there, for pushing it away would mean taking her hands from Loki's, and that was something she simply would not do. Would not risk that he would awaken while she was not at her vigil, that he would see some other gaze than her own when he opened her eyes . . .

A part of her was thankful for Eir's absence, for Thor's slumber.

His face was pale, even with the golden light that cloaked him. The shadows about his eyes were thick and purple, like bruises. The black of his clothes swallowed him like a pool of ink, his hands were a white sliver against the darkness from where they had been crossed over his chest.

His brow was furrowed. He still was restless, even then.

He would dream, Eir had said – the stasis she had placed him in encouraged it, to keep the mind strong where the body failed. Sif hoped that the dreams left to him were peaceful. She hoped that he felt none of the heartbreak they so all did . . .

Her hands tightened about his. Her palms sweated. She hoped he could feel her so – hear her so past where he was lost to her.

Distantly, she remembered sitting with Odin in his sleep her first century knowing the princes. She had sat with Loki that one night, her hair still golden, and had teased the boy for the shadow in his eyes. Didn't he know that the Allfather was only sleeping? He would always wake up. Asgard would always have her king.

And Loki only said, “Someday his sleep will be eternal.”

And Sif had not known what to say to that – had only a child's concepts of sorrows and time as she elbowed her friend, hoping to draw his melancholy from him with violence where her words had failed. Thor had ended up wrestling her to defend his brother's honour, and she had left Thor with a bloodied lip that Odin had smiled upon seeing when he awakened.

Now . . .

Now she understood the shadow that had been in his eyes. She wore it as her own, as her hair fell raven black into her eyes. She tossed her head angrily, the force of it shooing her hair away from her eyes. Over his chest, her hands clenched about his own. She could feel his heart beat, slow and sluggishly, as if it were nothing more than his cursed stubbornness and mule born nature that kept it going.

Her grip upon his hand was battle strong – as if she held steel rather than flesh and bone.

And she pleaded on a whisper. “Loki, you must wake up.”

She waited for the tell tale signs of him hearing her, remembering mornings where he feigned slumber as she rattled away at him. She looked – for the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, for the twitch behind the high sweep of his cheekbones. For his mouth to quirk, quick as a heartbeat before being hidden and silenced once again.

He was completely still, carved from marble before her. Stone and just as cold . . .

“Loki Odinson, you shall wake up, and you shall wake up now.” Sif struck her jaw out determinedly. Her words rang imperiously; a challenge across a battlefield. “Odinson . . .”

He did not blink. Her hands tightened about his own, feeling his fingers clench like arrows bunching in a quiver. How easily she could so snap them . . .

Challenge failed, she took to threatening: “If you do not wake up,” she tilted her head arrogantly with her words. “I will take the volumes that you hid in my rooms, and take them all to our grotto. And there I will drown them in the river.”

She waited for a response. None came.

“You think I do not know about them – you think yourself so clever when you conceal them in the shadows, but I know of your stashes. I know of your stash in the weaponry, in the warrior's hall - all of them will be emptied, I so swear by Yggdrasil eternal.”

He did not blink. His hands were still so cold. Her touch did naught to warm him, and _why would he not warm_? Why would he not turn and gaze upon her?

“And then I shall tell the Keeper what befell all of her missing books, and so cross will she be,” Sif continued, her voice echoing oddly in her throat – it was a desperate woman who pleaded so. A woman Sif did not know herself to be. “She will have you pulling scribe's work for the next century, my friend.”

Silence.

His face was so still . . .

“Do you hear me, Loki?”

Her words were useless. Her great devotion was not enough. Her home was falling to ash all around her, and she had only her silences to aid her.

“Loki?” Sif remembered her vision so, and her hold turned desperate. “Please, don't leave me here alone,” she let her voice turn delicate. She showed her throat with the words, laid her tenderest parts open and naked for a fatal blow. Defenseless was the shield-maiden in that moment, and Sif was content to be that way so before Loki. Always she had been . . .

“Please . . .” the word echoed in her throat, it was a wet sound, drawn from the deep parts of her.

And still, he did not respond. She waited for his hands to tighten over hers in comfort, she waited for him to smirk and tease her concern. She waited, but no reply came. Only silence, and cold hands, and the faintest whisper of a heartbeat . . .

. . . already, it was as if she held a corpse.

 

.  
.

From the edge of Eir's hall, silent in its shadow, Frigg watched the shield-maiden with a heavy heart.

She tried to remember if she had ever seen Sif so – if anyone had ever seen Sif so, soft and liquid without the steel that seemed to form her very bones. Frigg had always wondered if fate would be kind to the warrior, knowing as she knew that the battlefield could be sodden with blood at a war's end – and not only with the blood of an enemy. Comrades bled. Young men died, and wives were made widows to look after fatherless sons. Warring Sif would learn that, her loom had always said, but this way . . .

Frigg felt her jaw set, displeased with the way things were playing out. Her skin itched, she wished to weave her loom anew – any future, other than the one their feet were quick upon now.

It would be so easy to . . .

Her eyes traced over the three as her thoughts spun themselves. Of Thor weary and repentant, and Sif vulnerable and desperate. And Loki ready to die for his kindred . . . she trusted that heart to hold him through the worst of truths. She trusted all three with the future of her people, of her land and of great Yggdrasil eternal.

Their shoulders were wide enough for the burden she had to give.

And were they even not . . . she was queen of the Aesir, but yet she was mother first. And prophesy would no longer harm all that she held dear.

With a determined stride, Frigg made her way to her loom, her eyes flashing as a plot unfurled in her mind. It would do well for her husband and lord to remember that all her son had learned of seiðr and trickery was not from books and a sinister prophesy alone -

\- it was from her.

And she would not surrender her own to Hel's realm. Not yet.

. . . not yet.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Éljúðnir** : The hall of Hel, within the center of Helheimr (the ninth realm) which is upon the world Niflheimr, the homeworld of ice, located beneath the third root of the Yggdrasil.
> 
>  **Garmr** : Hel's hound, who is comparable with Cerberus, I have him as a shapeshifter here, and Hel's chief adviser, and link to sanity while ruling over the dead.
> 
>  **Helgafjell** : A peaceful Hall in Hel's realm where those who didn't die a warrior's death found their afterlife in peace.
> 
>  **Náströnd** : Comparable to the Greek Tartarus – the black part of Hel's realm where evil souls were cast to in the afterlife. Here they were devoured by the dragon, Níðhöggr.
> 
>  **Níðhöggr** : The dragon imprisoned in Niflheimr, who gnawed at the roots of Yggdrasil. He, along with Surtr, will be the two to set fire to the Yggdrasil during Ragnarök.
> 
>  **Móðguðr** : A Charon-esque figure in Norse mythology that guarded the bridge that separated the living from the dead.
> 
>  **Hvergelmir** : The spring in Niflheimr where all cold rivers come from – one half of the force needed for creation. Now, the dragon has his nest above the spring, where he gnaws on Yggdrasil's roots and devours the evil dead.
> 
>  **Nornir** : Plural for Norn - the three Jötunn woman who wove the fates of all. These sisters were Skuld(Future), Urðr(Past), and Verðandi(Present).
> 
>  **Ragnarök** : The Twilight of the Gods, the final battle of good versus evil where all will die, and a select few will be reborn to restart the cycle of life anew. The exact events of the end of the world are: First, the Fimbulwinter will come – a winter so cold and deadly that it will last three years. At the end of this, the wolves will succeed in their quests to devour sun and moon – upon which, Heimdall will blow his horn, awakening the fallen warriors in the hall of Valhalla. The violence of the falling stars free Loki from his bonds, and he goes to Hel to gather up an army of the dead. They sail from the underworld on a ship made of human nails, cresting on the waves made by the world serpent – who too exits the sea to join the fray. Loki's undead army team up with the Jötunn forces, and together they wage war against the Aesir/Vanir and the fallen from Valhalla. While they are destroying each other (Fenrir kills Odin, Thor slays Jörmungandr but is mortally wounded, Loki and Heimdall slay each other), the dragon and the fire giant Surtr (who has the forces of Múspellsheimr) set fire to Yggdrasil eternal. All die, but for a man and a woman – and Baldr, who is symbolic of spring and new life, and from this mankind is created . . . There is a whole debate on the Christian influences on such a myth (the dragon, an apocalyptic battle, a new heavens and a new earth), but that is a discussion for another time. ;)
> 
>  **Bastard Odin** : No, I do not think him to be intentionally cruel with his decision here. He is simply making the hard choice for his realm. Having known of the Prophesy of Twilight (in my verse, anyway), that is the main reason he took Loki in – and he'd rather see Loki die with his honor and a good name rather than cause Ragnarök prematurely when finding out about his heritage. Right? Wrong? That is for the reader to decide.


	6. seek out healing waters

In the Hall of Fensalir, the Queen of the Aesir sat at her loom.

The craft she wielded was ancient, made of the sacred groves that grew from the blessed soils of Vanaheimr. Those same trees had shadowed Frigg herself as she was born – anointing her with her sight, and burdening her with the bittersweet task of her visions. At one time, many were the daughters of the Vanir who held foresight in their veins. But those talents had faded with time, for such visions were not needed after the creation of the universe, not with the Nornir sisters there to see any and all for every soul upon Yggdrasil's boughs. The woman who once held such a sight either forsook their crafts for that of bride and mother, or they simply had forgotten how to truly look at what they saw in their dreams, in their weaving, in their rippled waters.

Frigg's own mother, one of the Firstborns of creation, had taught her the secrets of the loom. She had yet to forget its movements, or to forsake its power. Her father Fjörgynn, a simple farmer who personified the very spirit of the earth, had told her the story of her mother in those early days – the woman who was created by the wind between the trees and the deep set of the roots into the land. Jörða had not been long about the world of flesh and bone, and she had returned to the forces that had created her long before Frigg had accepted Odin's suit.

The uncanny blessing of her blood had been the very thing to make sure her visions sat with her throughout the centuries when the gift was lost to her sisters. Unlike her son, who could naturally wield the powers of seiðr, Frigg could feel around the edges. Her blood was made from fire – as were all born of Goðheimr and Vanaheimr; but she was touched with the edges of the elemental grace, blessed to channel that energy through an avatar like her loom. It was not to the children of flame to manipulate the elemental powers – it was for them to defend. To protect what Yggdrasil held as sacred

And in her visions, she could defend much. In her dreams – in her weave, she saw every possible future. Every road – taken or not taken, was hers to observe and take part of.

She had learned, early on, the wisdom of silence in relation to such paths. Often times, trying to pick the right course only brought one worse on – the warp and the weft of the weave were always in motion. Always moving, and Frigg could not control them as much as she simply could observe.

The cloth she wove was golden, seemingly made of light as she fed it through the heddles. The thread was soft – it felt naught of wool, but of something greater than any natural fiber. It felt like starlight – warm and illuminating as she tucked in the edges. Each strand was prepared ahead of time on her own spindle – the mortals spoke of spinning gold, and Frigg still had to smile at how much humanity guessed for and found wanting in their legends.

It was not true gold; the paltry metal so loved by mortal kind, but the ether of the universe, the stuff and matter of dreams . . . And fate.

The thread sang against her fingers. Each one she twined – Love, Pain, Anger, Suffering, Hope, Joy, and Fear. Beginning and Ending were their crossweaves, as were Life and Death. Blessing and Malediction. Her Hall was shadowed, even as dawn threatened to light Asgard's horizons beyond. Her eyes were molten, she knew, casting light as if from embers as she sat to weave.

A hand upon the reed, another upon the shuttle, and slowly, she started to coax all together.

Over time, she learned that dreams only showed bits and pieces; they were the futures most unreliable, most erratic and chaotic as she saw her world rise and fall through sleep. With her loom, she controlled her power. She decided the thread to see.

And so now she chose to see. And saw.

 _Please_ , she prayed, _show me the way to Niflheimr – show me a path so that my son may live_.

Her mind uttered the plea, but it was her fingers which translated the words. Her hands glowed as if there was a fire behind her bones, making them dark silhouettes under her skin in the half light. Her skin burned, her visions trembled. Golden light swirled as the threads ignited. The weaving came quickly now as past and present fell in on each other, the thread tangled and collected, and a pattern formed. A picture painted itself – in the palms of her hands, in the empty spaces behind her eyes. Yggdrasil whispered to its favored queen, and Frigg listened. She understood the beating of the ancient tree's heart; understood the song the cosmos sang . . .

But it was a song whose melody changed with every new measure. It was not a song to trust – for decision and conscious thought placed every rhythm on a different path than the last. If was for this reason that Frigg never spoke of what she saw – not even in the days of her youth, when Odin had sought her not for her hand, but for her powers of foresight; not even when the Great War spiked and Odin turned to Mimir and his well for wisdom when she would not break her silence. Even now, she could not reveal the whole of her cloth – would not unintentionally damn all she held dear by trying to save it.

But she could deign a starting point. She needed only to push gently at fate, and then the proper path would be taken. This was why she was equal to Odin Allfather in the eyes of her people. Always known to her was the way ahead, even during the most darkest of hours. To Odin they looked for steel and glory, to Frigg they looked for compassion and guidance.

The cloth pooled at her feet, liquid as water and light rather than substantial as fabric. Figures danced upon the face of the cloth – lips formed words and hands clasped to worship with their stories. She reached out – and sought, seeing behind her eyes so many things . . .

She _saw_.

. . . she saw Asgard upon the sea of the cosmos. Beneath the great bridge of the bifröst, the sea rolled angrily in its cradle. The waves raged tempestuously - as broken as the great monument above it. The bridge had perished, broken, and upon it stood the Guardian, ever vigil, and one of her sons, but only one . . . only one. She shied away from that path, feeling pain spike in the marrow of her at such a picture . . .

. . . she saw the bridge standing tall, paying toll to foreign travelers – heroes, not of Valhalla's cloth, but of a mortal determination and pride. She watched the warriors curiously, the stain of Midgard's future for mortality blackening them all, and yet how brightly they shone to her senses. The time of heroes was not one lost to times long past . . .

. . . she saw a lone figure, hunting in the wastes. The wind was a violent cadence at the figure's back, the white light of the blizzard glinting off of polished points of steel – off of the shield upon their back, the armor at their chest and thighs, the sword held high as if to threaten the very squalls. Niflheimr roared, and the lone one bared their teeth in reply, answering their challenge. Her loom was cool in her hands, channeling the ice. She let it be.

. . . she then saw down into Múspellsheimr. On the second planet of creation, fire kissed dark obsidian shores, and the air was alight with fertile ash and toxic steam. Forges worked in the great belly of the planet, blackening the sky above until one could not tell whether day was upon them or night. The Eldjötnar were an ancient, primordial race, and in their depths even they did not dare disturb the ancient place where the fiery one had been bound, his screams shaking the weave of her cloth as he bellowed his threats to Yggdrasil herself should he not be freed . . .

. . . she saw the Twilight. Saw as Goðheimr burned, and great Yggdrasil's roots burned with it. She saw the shadow the dragon cast as he bore Death and Betrayal on his wings across the burning landscape. She saw the sunlight that glinted on the glaive of the shield-maiden, and the ash that turned the Thunderer's hair grey. And so rose Odin great and terrible against the one he had once called son, and – she cut the thread. It snapped with a satisfying sound.

. . . she saw the land of Midgard. She saw tall buildings, reaching to the sky like great stone fingers. She saw the yellow smear of gridlocked vehicles and heard the unnatural call of sirens as humanity shuffled past like locust upon the oasis their home had once been. There was a woman, with dark and warm eyes who walked hand in hand with the Thunderer, and there was such a smile to brighten his face that Frigg paused upon seeing it. Her loom stilled, entranced as she was by the peace in her son's eyes – the mercy he had learned with his warring ways, tempering the steel in his hand.

. . . but the moment did not last long, and next she saw her second son taking arms against an odd group of mortal soldiers. Something was said by the foremost man – clothed in gold and scarlet armor, and upon it, Loki raised his hands, his smirk mocking. In his palms, an awful energy crackled - like lightning before it escaped the heavens. His eyes were mad and alight with the seiðr's powers, and when he exhaled the magic leapt like flames in a wildfire, their tongues licking at anything and everything in their path . . .

. . . she then saw her son kneel before her, the second, his garb black and sharp about his body as if to make him an arrow, slung from an archer's bow. How the curve of his bow did not mock before her as it did before others. His hair had been shorn, cut sloppily so that it just reached the square angle of his jaw. A part of her smiled as she recognized Sif's work, and still she kept her face serene as she took his hand in her own, and bid him rise. For he was her son, and she had forgiven him long ago . . .

. . . she saw the realm of Hel. Death herself stood in a pool of stars, her living hand outstretched with her decaying one. Her garments fell from her as if adorned by night itself, and the souls surrounding her shone as stars. Within her palm she held two such souls, one blinking, drained of its brilliance; the other a small sun, ever shining. "This way," Death bid, and there was such a command in her voice that Frigg tightened her thread, anchored her weave. Her fingers spun in time to the kindred voice – saw the path through the northern land. On the path spun, over the river that flowed from Niflheimr's heart, the bridge eternally guarded by the stillest of a soul, over the Ironwood, and low down where the base of the Yggdrasil sat upon the void.

. . . she saw the way. And she seized it.

And the last thing she saw as the vision released her was carrion eyes, crimson against the nothingness of the void and the iciness of his nest. The eyes widened, serpentine and alight with the insanity of a lifelong age of captivity. "Scry no further, milady queen," the voice that reached her ears rasped like the wind over a field of glass, cutting into her skin. "Thou will find naught of thine treasure in Níðhöggr's horde."

Frigg pulled at the shuttles, narrowed her eyes – golden with the gleam of her power. When she spoke, her voice rang with an ancient timbre, not her own, "Know you what I seek then?"

The dragon laughed, a scarlet sound within her ears. "Know'est I that milady queen moves to spare the soul of her hatchling. Fear thee not, for the power of such a deceased soul shall free'est Níðhöggr from Níðhöggr's own bounds."

"He is not your soul to keep," Frigg declared.

She heard the wet sound of water sloshing as a massive weight trudged through their depths. Níðhöggr stirred, and in her ears, Yggdrasil moaned her pain. "He shall burn these wretched roots from about Níðhöggr, and then he shall descend on Goðheimr itself to purge from it its soul. Let rise Loki Worldslayer; let him slaughter the realm of giants, and let him turn the land of gods to ash and bone! Already Níðhöggr's own heart is set to serve such a one. Surtr too rises from the deep of Múspellsheimr to honor such a call."

"My son will utter naught such an order," Frigg hissed. Her hair was a halo of lightning about her, as if drawn forth from the static of a storm.

A fine _tap tap tap_ across the ancient wood of her loom – like claws clicking over scales. "Loki Odinson may not, but what of Loki Laufeyson? Thou dost see all futures – can thou truly call Níðhöggr's words false?"

"The road you see is but one," Frigg let the words fall like arrows against armor. "I shall not let him set his feet upon it."

Níðhöggr snorted. "Save thine hatchling, and let thy Twilight come late. Let thine hatchling perish now, and see the Worldslayer rise from Hel's depths much sooner than even thy Nornir eyes could have forseen."

"You know not of my son's heart," Frigg protested, her words strong. "He will prove wrong all – and from your chains beneath Yggdrasil, you will not be able to see how far he will outshine us all."

Níðhöggr bowed his head mockingly. "Perhaps, milady queen. And yet, the Allfather has made many a great and terrible foe – all so trampled and struck against will rise at Laufeyson's call."

"Níðhöggr was bound for Níðhöggr's own deeds," Frigg said sharply. "As was Surtr the fiery one."

"Be it so, milady queen," the dragon bobbed its head, the golden light of her visions molten across the jewel tones of his scales, "chose now thine own path – for Níðhöggr will do his all to prevent the drawing from Níðhöggr's well."

"Then so be it," Frigg raised her head up proudly. The wyrm chuckled – a musical and elemental sound that Frigg felt in her bones rather than heard in her ears. The dragon huffed, the smoke of his breath clouding the mental plane until Frigg struck at the cloth of her vision – cutting it from the warp and weft.

The thread snapped.

The dragon vanished.

And within her hands, Frigg held her path.

 

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.

Sif awakened to cool hands, strong upon her shoulder.

At her side, her queen stood, a tall shadow thrown by the light of the spells which held Loki in stasis. Immediately, Sif felt consciousness come upon her, scrambling to straighten herself before Frigg. The queen stood too close for her to take to one knee and bow, and so she dipped her head and said, "Milady." Her eyes were downcast in respect, held by the wisps of gold that encased Loki just beyond.

"Be at peace, Lady Týrdottir," Frigg waved a hand. "I have a task for you – and my son, if you would so agree to it."

Sif looked up, curious. Past Frigg, Thor had already stirred, his massive limbs held taut and his brow furrowed in grim determination. The look was an old one to Sif, and instinctively her veins lit with a battle's adrenaline. She was ready to strike.

"Anything," Sif so swore.

Frigg smiled, the shadow of it so sharp that Sif was reminded of Loki. The blow struck.

"Then come with me, for the words I wish to say will not find their voice here."

Sif nodded, and got to her feet, wincing from a night spent crumbled at Loki's bedside. Thor too rubbed discretely at his neck, and she felt a moments regret for not waking him sooner the night before.

They followed Frigg to her Hall. Fensalir was a sacred part of the palace, permitted only to the Queen and her ladies. Even Odin had yet to set foot in his wife's Hall in all of their centuries together – which had been decided back when Frigg first took the throne of Asgard. Her prophesies were delicate things, and early on in her life, she had learned discretion with their contents.

The loom was still as they gathered around it. Golden threat pooled at their feet, soft in the dark violet light that was Asgard before the dawn. As soon as they had all taken their seats, Frigg leaned towards them both, her fingers steepeled before her face as she collected her words upon her tongue.

"The waters of Múspellsheimr failed to heal my son," Frigg started to say. She spoke slowly, letting the words slip gently from her mouth. "But that was because the wrong water of creation was used to heal him."

Thor's eyes were guarded, careful as he said, "Eir told us of the waters failure."

Frigg took in a deep breath, carefully choosing her words. It was a look that Sif had seen on Loki's face many a time. "What if I told you, that it was not the waters of Múspellsheimr that were needed to heal your brother, but the waters of Niflheimr?"

Thor snorted. "I would call that madness. What good would the frozen waters of the Underway do to one born of the flames?"

Sif bit her lip, not so certain. For didn't Niflheimr beget to creation seiðr and magic while Múspellsheimr gave blood and steel . . .

And Frigg said as Sif thought. "Your brother, more so than most, bears the mark of Niflheimr in his soul. You know, as do we all, that Loki is first amongst his kind at the arts of seiðr."

"So I know," Thor mumbled. It was often a point of curiosity to the first prince – if not a point of downright perplexity. Many amongst the court held their opinions more cruelly than Thor, she knew For a man of the Aesir was not considered to be one except for by strength of steel and blow. Sif set her mouth at the argument, knowing how deeply the back and forth of it had rooted itself in Loki's mind throughout the centuries. It had been a demon she had helped him face since long before her hair had turned raven black at his hand, and she'd wager it would be a demon they'd continued to slay until long after her tresses were worn and grey.

Sif leveled an old look of annoyance at Thor, before turning to hear the rest of Frigg's words.

Frigg mirrored Sif's look before she said. "Your brother has too much of the elemental in his veins to be cured by Múspellsheimr's waters alone. He needs the waters of the Underway to be cured." Her words were carefully said, carefully chosen, and Sif fought a frown upon them. The queen had the same ques as Loki did when spinning a tale that was not completely true – the crinkling around her eyes, and the barest inflection upon her words. She did not completely lie to them, but there was more to the story that she was holding close to her.

Sif let her glance fall down to the golden cloth in her queen's hands, and decided that it did not matter. Her sovereign had a task for her that would result in the survival of the one she held more dearly than all. Many were Frigg's secrets, and many more were their reasons. Sif did not want the full burden of the future – just the corners of it which she could lend her steel to.

She said before Thor, "How does one gather the Underwater?" she asked, for Frigg would not have came to them with such solemnity had it been so simple a task.

"And that is where the danger of my request lies." Frigg hesitated.

Thor leaned towards his mother, reaching out to take both of her hands in his own. His grip swallowed her, and Sif fought the smallest smile at how gentle her friend was with his mother. Frigg's eyes were soft upon her son – for Thor did not even think for falsehood as Sif did. His mind did not work to allow such deceits – not in those closest to him. "Mother, we will do anything for Loki – for you." And his words were true.

For all of Thor's faults, Sif knew, it was the heart of him – in moments like this, especially – which made her confident for the future he would someday lead Asgard too.

"As you both know, the worlds of creation cannot be reach by the bifröst alone. The paths to those realms were severed when the Nornir spoke of the Twilight – when both Surtr and Níðhöggr were buried deep beneath Yggdrasil's deepest roots lest they let the end come for all."

Sif and Thor nodded, having both grown on such tales.

"There does so exist a last path to Niflheimr, in the most northern part of our land. Nine days, and nine nights from here, there is a way to make it from the height of Yggdrasil to her shadowed depths. Once your travel this far, you shall come to the river they call Gjöll – one of the eleven rivers, which so existed from the beginning of creation. Indeed, the river flows straight from Hvergelmir – the spring deep in Niflheimr, in Hel's realm, which so holds the Underwater you seek."

"So we shall travel to Hel's lands?" Thor asked, his great voice a rumbling sound in his throat.

Frigg took in a half a breath. "Yes, you shall."

Thor leaned forward at that – eagerly, Sif would think. Already he thirsted for new challenges the nine realms wide, and the land of Hel herself would certainly be one such challenge. Hel and her Halls were a part of her people's lore of which little was spoken, and little so did Sif know of the shadowed lands save for the few stories Loki had told her in times past.

Frigg's gaze was heavy upon them both – weighing and waiting as she let the enormity of her request sink in. She found steel returning her gaze, and so she continued. "At the end of the northern road, there is a bridge named Gjallarbrú, guarded by the giantess Móðguðr – she bears the greed of the living who wish not for death, and you will have to appeal to that greed to pass. Pay her toll with this," and Frigg reached to a pouch she had besides her loom. The simple and aging leather was drawn aside to reveal the brilliant glimmer of gold and diamonds – a treasure forged by Ivaldi himself, and given to Frigg when great Odin was trying to win her hand.

"Brísingamen?" Thor asked, his voice pained. "Mother, you cannot give this -"

"Móðguðr will accept nothing less than the dearest of treasures," Frigg said sharply. "This, of every treasure in Asgard, means the most to me, and so it is what I will pay to return my son to me." Her words were forged iron, and with a reverent hand she passed it to her firstborn. "Please, treat it well, and use it without thought. I would give this and more for any of your souls."

She closed Thor's massive hand over the necklace – Brísingamen was a ransom of kings, worth more than any paltry gem on Midgard could ever weigh. The treasure was oddly light in his hands, the stones cool and the gold so delicate that Sif wagered he could bend it without fully clenching his fist.

"Now on the other side of the bridge, you shall find yourself upon Niflheimr, in the Ironwood – beware, for the snow falls with a fury there, and the storms you will find are fiercer than anything even Jötunnheimr can offer. There woods cover the low hills of the mountains which form Helgafjell's barrier - but be careful with using the caverns for shelter. You faced a glimpse of Mara's power from afar – she resides in those caves, and she is not a hospitable host."

Thor was silent upon hearing that, and Sif too felt her limbs brace instinctively at the memory of her vision. She breathed in deep, feeling her voice hum in the back of her throat, before exhaling.

Frigg's silence stretched, letting her words weigh, before she continued. "At the end of the Ironwood, there is the Hel-gate where blood stained Garmr stands watch. Past him, there is the entrance to the Hall of Éljúðnir, and Hel herself. Gain an audience with her – tell her your plight, and it shall be she who tells you how to reach the spring of the Underwater. I cannot . . . I cannot speak of that path without influencing the future in a way that may prove disastrous to all. Know that I stretch the limits of my vow by voicing what I say to you now."

Thor nodded. "I so understand," he assured her. "Hel herself will bow before us."

Sif rolled her eyes. "He shall be the soul of diplomacy," she assured the queen, who breathed a little easier at the oath. Thor looked at her, betrayed, and she fought the urge to elbow him.

"Do try not to make an enemy of Death," Frigg said dryly. "You shall make governing these realms a hardship for yourself one day, if you do."

Thor offered no apology, but he fell silent. Sif counted that as a win.

"Now, there is one last thing I must say," and again Frigg pondered before speaking. Not quite a falsehood she would give to them, but not quite the whole truth, Sif would wager. "Your father does not know I speak of these things to you – he does not agree that the risk of such a travel to Niflheimr is worth the reward."

At that, Thor's brow furrowed. "He does not want us traveling for Loki's life?" His voice wore his bafflement openly.

"He does not believe that the dangers of Niflheimr are worth the risk," Frigg said carefully.

Thor snorted. "We have faced much worse than this before."

"No," Frigg said solemnly. "No, you have not."

Thor started at that, his impossibly clear eyes clouded as he felt his mother's words as the weight they were. "Then, we will travel and fight and do the name of Odin honor with our victory."

Frigg sucked in a breath, leaning forward to place a hand on Thor's arm. "A journey to the roots of Yggdrasil is not like a trip to Midgard. You will find no quarter on this world – please, treat it as such."

"I shall, mother," Thor said, baffled by the honest worry that dwelt in Frigg's eyes.

Her hand tightened, the desperation of a mother who stood to lose two rather than one, and then she let go. Frigg breathed in deep. "You must be gone by the first light – before Odin knows you make your journey. Make it past the central city before noon, and I will try to protect your passage to the Northern gate. I know not if Odin will send his forces to retrieve you, but travel as if he will. I can only shield you so much before it shall depend on you to carry the burden."

"I understand," Thor said, rising. "And we shall not fail you."

Frigg rose as well, Sif in her shadow. "I know," she said simply. Thor gave in to the worry on her face, and hugged his mother – holding her as he had not in centuries. Frigg's eyes fell closed at the gesture, while Sif stepped politely to the side, allowing mother and son their moment.

When he at last drew away, Frigg handed Thor an oilskin, old and brittle. "Here is the path I have described to you – penned back when we took the path to bind the dragon and the fiery one. Don't lose this, for once lost in the wastes of Niflheimr, forever shall you wander. It is the curse of the mists."

"I shall return to you – and return with the water to so heal Loki's soul. You have my word," Thor declared. But his voice was empty of grand gestures. His tone was low, the timbre of it a promise made to keep.

Frigg stood up straighter upon hearing it. "Then go, so you can return," she said, her voice weary with an ancient weight.

They turned from the hall, as beyond them, Asgard threatened to wake.

 

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Sif was ready sooner than Thor, and so she stood one last time before Loki.

Her armor was covered by her traveling robes, lined with fur and thickly warm, with long slashes cut into the legs of the cloak so as to let her fight easily if need be. She wore thick gloves upon her fingers – ironically, enchanted by Loki years ago to never grow cold. Nothing was worse than numb fingers over the hilt of a sword, she had complained their first trek into the waste years ago, and Loki had made it so that she would never grow cold again.

Now, she would do the same for him.

"We're traveling to Hel and back for you, Tangletongue," she said in a low whisper, leaning very close to the golden spells which held him in stasis. "You will wake again, I so swear by Yggdrasil eternal."

She had one gloved hand clasped over his own, and upon seeing that they were truly alone, she leaned down to kiss his still lips. The golden spells teased warmly at her skin, curious as to her presence. The kiss was admittedly odd without his smirk curling against her mouth, and every clenched muscle in her expected him to hold a cool hand to her neck in return. But the barest of breaths teased past her lips, and it was enough.

For now, she could breathe and fight for the both of them.

She straightened her cloak, let her mouth sit grim upon her face.

And from the entrance of Eir's hall, she heard, "Are you ready, my lady?"

At Thor's voice, she took a step back, her heavy eyes upon Loki taking a sharper edge long meant to tease. Thor's smile quirked just barely - the gaze, to him, as old as his childhood. "Indeed I am," answered she, moving her traveling pack more comfortably over her shoulder.

Thor inclined his head to her, before moving to say his own farewells to his second. He leaned down, and placed a massive hand about Loki's shoulder, smiling as he imagined the cross look that would normally be favored to him in return. When he spoke, his words were a vow, "We are coming for you, my brother. We are coming."

 

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Death stood on the banks of the Náströnd, the black part of the netherworld, saved for the darkest of souls. Here the pure river Gjöll started its path from the heart of Hvergelmir. For the purity of the water, the air stank of decay and ruin – rotting flesh and the copper toned stink of blood. The souls who had been evil in life; it was here they were thrown, left to the horrors of Mara's shades and black hearted Níðhöggr himself. The malicious souls did little to assuage the dragon's hunger, and the great beast tore at his bonds, breathing with the very fire of Múspellsheimr. Here, in the depths of ice, the wyrm was trapped and weakened, but he would not be so forever.

Should he someday escape . . . Nothing would prevent him from setting great Yggdrasil's branches aflame. Between the fires of Níðhöggr, and the fires of Surtr, the tree would burn as the warring parties about the boughs tore each other asunder – uncaring of the fate of Yggdrasil until it became too late.

Surtr, Death could do nothing to strike against. She was Mistress of Niflheimr, the world of ice and mist, and the creatures of fire would not be hers to slay.

But, one part of prophesy could fall . . .

At her feet, the icy waters rippled. They told a story to their mistress, and she read their words in their unnatural depths.

The living approached her realm.

"Garmr," spoke she to her Hound, trailing in her shadow as always. "We are to have company. Make your way to the Ironwood, and see that their path remains true."

The Hound bowed deeply, the dark rope of his hair falling about his shoulders to touch the surface of the river. "As my lady commands."

Death nodded, acknowledging his loyalty. She let her head stay bowed as she feeling the warmth he exuded to her senses fade from her until she was left only with the souls, the silence around her an echoing and weighty thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Path to Hel** : Is the same one Hermódr took in behalf of Baldr's soul, as described in the _Gylfaginning_.
> 
>  **Brísingamen** : Technically belongs to Freyja in the myths, I applied artistic liberty.


	7. The Path to Hel

Dawn slipped from the cosmos to cover great Asgard eternal.

Frigg stood in the Hall of Valaskjálf, her face turned to the sky beyond. She had had Fulla dress her in full ceremonial garb that morning, needing both the power and grace of Queen alongside that of wife and mother. The soft light of the approaching dawn caught on the golden thread of her dress, in the long falls of her cloak. Her shadow was a blow cast from her body, so set to swallow any who dared crossed it. The rising sunlight warmed her face, thawing against the ice that had coated her bones since her son's return from the Mórrigan's moon.

She did not have to wait long before she was joined so by her lord and husband.

Odin's strides clicked against the polished floor, pointed and angry. In time with the strides was the beating of wings; her husband's ravens, no doubt, cawing in discordant tones in the yawning expanse of the throne room, reflecting their master's foul mood. She heard the clatter of metal against metal, and tilted her head when she realized that he wore armor rather than the leathers and suede that he normally preferred. At the sound, she turned, her eyes slipping over the bronze and silver points of him before coming to look into his one eye, reading the thunder that stuck there.

"I bid you good morning, my lord," she said, the affection in her voice real, even though she braced herself against the storm she knew was coming.

"You deliberately disobeyed me," Odin said without preamble. He stopped a pace from her, his stance a warrior's one – feet spread and shoulders squared.

"Yes," Frigg answered levelly. She kept her posture straight, her hands crossed loosely before her stomach. The fabric there rippled, rich as it caught the light.

"I made it clear why such a path was dangerous to take, did I not?"

"And I made it clear why I disagreed," Frigg returned, her voice the water between the ripples striking opposite to her. "I sat at my loom last night. I wove a path – believe me when I say that your First will prove your trust true were you to give it."

"And if he does not?" Odin took a step forward, his feet restless. His boots struck the ground like blows, fit to march."If your vision proves made for another time, and this one leads to the death of both of our sons, what then?"

Frigg bristled. "There is danger to each and every battle which Thor marches in to. And yet, how you and our people so value every empty fight – in which much is risked, but little is gained. Now that there is truly a risk worth fighting for, you would advise caution?" her voice pitched higher with her incredulousness.

"Dwarfs, giants, mortal men – _hippogryphs_ ," Odin's voice scorned. "There has yet not been a challenge Thor has embarked on which I did not believe him capable of succeeding in."

"And each was an empty fight," Frigg exclaimed. "Now, he fights for his own. He did not even think to do anything else – such is the way of family, of _kin_."

"You would lecture me on the bonds of kinsman?" Odin gave incredulously, his tone struck.

Frigg sighed, glancing up at her life's partner. The patch at his eye was sharp and metallic, a blade catching her eye. "I would not," she said, choosing her words carefully. "You have always been the best of husbands to me, and Thor adores you as his father. But with Loki . . . you fear more than you love at times. And someday that fear may hurt that love . . . for you, for all of us."

There was a long moment of silence between them. She counted out her heartbeats, sharp against her chest.

"Indeed," Odin finally returned. "It is fear that stays my hand. Fear for how this trek will treat Thor. Fear for he meeting the Mistress of Niflheimr and discovering her secrets. For Thor I fear, but for the shield-maiden, as well. What should happen if the Lady Týrdottir does recognize Death? Hel's secrets are as many as they are deep, and all of them could be a catalyst for the Twilight were Loki to find their truths before he is ready."

Frigg squared her jaw, knowing that their argument would be the same as it was the night before. Time had done naught to soften so much as fortify. Their difference of opinion was the same as it had been for centuries - since the time when Odin had first decided to hide Loki's heritage so, and Frigg had disagreed. The topic would always be a chasm so between them – and there was nothing she could do to change it until it would be too late. And so, she said, "Then what would you have me do? Already Thor and Sif march for Gjallarbrú. You cannot stop them." There was no pride in her voice. Merely a weariness, tired and old.

"Indeed, I can," Odin said then.

Instantly, Frigg instinctively narrowed her gaze at the words. It was rare when Odin talked so as leader and commander of his troops to her rather than with her. Her jaw locked at the tone.

"And how so?" she queried, daring him.

He took her challenge with a still eye, unblinking. "There are nine days and nine nights between the center of the city and the bridge of Gjallarbrú. I am ordering my guard out now – Thor and Lady Týrdottir will be returned before they make it to the land of Niflheimr."

Frigg let her surprise show openly upon her face – shocked that he would so send his own troops against her vision to uphold his word. "Thor will not let you pull him away from this path," she declared. "He shall not understand – not with you keeping your secrets close and dear. Sif too will have her grief harden to hate should you force this."

"Then so be it," Odin said, crossing his arms. "I am prepared to take that weight."

The breath in Frigg's throat was a desperate thing, catching incredulously. Her eyes turned pleading, desperate. "I cannot let him die," said she, and her voice was a hollow echo in her mouth. "I cannot let him go without doing everything possible to keep him with us." Her last syllable caught like a sob, and she could not pull it back in.

And across from her, her all seeing husband faltered.

Odin sighed, great and deep from his chest. The steel seemed to fade from him, leaving him as flesh and bone. Always had he been so before her. Always, she had given him the comfort and peace of being so.

When he reached out to draw her nearer, she did not fight. While their quarrels could be fierce (Thor did not get his temper merely from Odin, although she was loath to admit it aloud), it was rare that they went unsettled for long. She was a stone in the river of him, completely covered even as she stayed the current above. Always, she had been content to be so.

Moments passed, and then he pulled back, one hand warm and heavy about her shoulder as the other reached up to wipe away the tears that had escaped her. She sucked in a breath at the feel of him, his hands sword callused, as familiar to her as her own as they mapped over the planes of her skin. "Please know that what I do, I do for us all . . . I do not desire any harm to come to the boy -"

"Our son," Frigg interrupted softly.

" - but know that I cannot let them go down this path. I cannot risk the future of the realm so, no matter what I may personally prefer."

She inhaled deeply, her lungs aching to hold the gesture. She understood why the Allfather would say so. But it was not the Allfather who held her so, but _Odin_. There was a balance to be struck between monarch and patriarch, and she wanted desperately for it to be set before they lost something they could not regain.

"I understand," she said. "Truly I do . . . but, Odin, I do not agree . . ."

"You do not have to," said he, and it was another step between them. She sighed, weary as he turned from her. With a wave of his hand, he summoning the guards right beyond the hall – no doubt ready to march towards Gjallarbrú.

Frigg watched him leave, her frown a heavy blow upon her face. Huginn and Muninn cawed reproachfully at her as they swept down from the rafters of the throne room to perch upon Odin's shoulders, awaiting his order. She held her hands together before her dress, worrying the golden band upon her left hand as she bit her lip.

She could not agree with Odin, but the means to fight his orders were growing past her, now. She had done all she could to save her son, now his life was entirely in the hands of Thor and Sif. More capable hands she could not wish for.

After Odin had departed, there was a second flutter of wings, loud and flapping in the silence of her husband's Hall. When Frigg turned back to the open expanse of the balcony, Anann stood as she did the eve before, her face reflecting a sympathy and determination which could only be born of war and its tragedies.

A heartbeat. The warrior woman's eyes held a question.

"Odin sends his men after my son and the shield-maiden," Frigg so answered.

A sigh, long and deep. "And they ride for the bridge of Gjallarbrú?" Anann asked, her brow creased in thought. Her shepherd's hook was a heavy weight in her hand, pulsing with the grandeur of Asgard's magic.

"They do," Frigg answered.

Anann nodded, the light streaking warm tones in the dark bind of her hair. She then said, "My sisters and I can waylay the men of Odin, at least until the bridge of Gjallarbrú is reached. It would be a pretty piece of magic to allow us into Niflheimr, and I have not the time to perform it. But . . . here and now, I can see your weaving hold true."

Frigg said, "I can take no more a stand against my lord husband than I already have. If you move, move of your own accord, and know that you have the blessing of Asgard – no matter what events transpire from here."

Anann bowed from her waist. "Milady queen," she said, giving her understanding and acceptance.

Frigg nodded to the other, lifting her head up high. "Daughter of War," she gave in return.

Anann backed up towards the edge of the balcony again, and let the wind sweep her away, the caw of the raven and the flutter of black wings her last farewell. Frigg watched her until she was but a smear of ink against the turbulent horizon, and then turned away once more.

 

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.

By noon, Thor and Sif had made it past the northern walls of the city.

The markets of Asgard had been silent so early in the morning. The merchants had just started to spread their goods, and the bakers fires had just started to lighten the skyline. The golden city was pot marked with bright flares of color from the hanging tapestries and the rings of spices held high above the tents and booths in the interlocking squares. From the eternal sea beyond, waterways crisscrossed the city, and the webbing of bridges and gardens piercing the underbelly of the city were well traveled paths to Thor and Sif – certainly the people had long become accustomed to the Thunderer and the shield-maiden riding through at a quick pace, eager for adventure, and the stories waiting to be told beyond the great city. That morning, the encouraging cries from the people they passed had a new meaning – a new weight, even as Sif wondered how many would cheer if they knew their heroes rode for the life of the second son of Odin.

It was a thought she put from her mind as they passed the high wall of the outer city, and she was determined not to turn it over in her mind again.

Past the golden walls, there were low lying flat lands, verdant and rich with fertile soil and thick grass. It was here where Sif had learned to ride and war from horseback all of those centuries ago, alongside the sons of Odin. The long lanes had seemed never ending as a child, the golden cast of the wheat fields before the harvest matching her hair from where it had been bound at her neck. Now, the ripe grain was sweet on the air, the thick spray of grass and mud from their horses hooves as they rode hard and quick through the land even more so.

Soon enough, the flat lands gave to the foothills of the Trúfinr mountains. The mountains were the barriers of great Asgard to the north, just as the sea was the barrier to the south. Above the peaks, the cosmos stretched rather than horizon, never letting one forget that this was no mere realm they resided upon – but rather the height of light and splendor at the top of great Yggdrasil's boughs.

She and Thor did not let up their pace until the wooded lands started in the foothills, reigning their mounts and giving them each a well needed break. Hófvarpnir, Sif's mare, and Þjálfi were well seasoned warhorses, and they shared the spirit of their riders, throwing their heads back in distaste when they were finally reigned in from their gallop. Sif stretched her lips, chapped from the hours of ridding, into a thin smile, and reached forward to pat the great roan neck of her horse fondly as they trotted through the wooded land.

Beyond them, they heard the sound of a raven's caw – the same sound that had drawn them short just moments before. They knew that call, and Sif did not need Thor's command to slow to better access their situation.

Wordlessly, she dismounted as Thor did. Long was the time they had spent as commander and commanded to each other, and she knew the path he would take before he said so. Leaving their mounts behind a few paces, Sif, lighter of the two, took to the nearest oak tree that grew in the copse they stopped in. She swung herself up through the branches, until her height gave her a clear view of the flatlands they had just covered, and her sharp eyes seeing almost all the way back to the great city behind them.

She frowned at what she saw, and quickly slipped back down through the boughs, landing silently again at Thor's side.

"Your father moves quickly," said she.

Thor frowned. "I had hoped that he would not set the guard on us this time," he said, his voice an exasperated exhale from his mouth.

Sif's frown mirrored his own. "Huginn and Muninn already made sight of us – they report back to Hrodgæir and his guard."

"Hrodgæir?" Thor repeated the name, surprised. "Father must truly want us back."

Sif made a face at the name of the other man. A young man and warrior who had gone through training with she and the princes, Hrodgæir had since gone on through the ranks to captain Odin's personal palace guard. He had been most vocal in time's past of his disapproval for a warrior maiden – drawing Loki's pranks, and Sif's ire in the rings more times than she could remember.

Hrodgæir would rejoice to bring them back, bound and repentant, to Odin.

Sif let her lips part, a battle sneer. "The ravens spoke of our location. They are not an hour from us."

"I would not have them be a thorn in our side the entire march to the northern gate," Thor frowned.

Sif raised a brow. "Your orders, then?"

"Deeper into the woods," Thor said. "Our pace will slow without the room to ride hard, and they will catch up. Unfortunately for them."

"Most so," Sif's grin was sharp.

"Come now," Thor tilted his head back to their mounts.

They rode for another hour's time, until the wood turned thick and unfriendly, cutting out the sunlight from above. The path higher into the foothills grew steeper and steeper until they were picking slowly through the path lest the horses take an unfriendly fall.

When they stopped next, they were with company.

"About fifty paces past that last bend," Sif said, instead listening to a dagger she had dug into the ground, rather than going up high to gauge their situation. The forest was thick here – and Huginn and Muninn would not have been able to spy that far ahead.

"Well then," Thor bowed. "After you, milady."

Sif dismounted, and handed her reins to Thor. Thor's words were light, even as his face turned serious. "Do try not to take every blow, Sif."

"If you so insist," her tone was sharp, fighting away the frown from her face.

Thor led the horses away, and Sif once again took to the oak tree nearest her. This time she climbed until she met the thick branches not even twenty feet in the air. Raising a brow, she judged where the limbs best twisted and knotted over the path below. Once choosing her place, she crouched low, the dark shades of her cloak over her armor making her indistinguishable from the shadows all about her.

And while she waited, she wondered at the Allfather trying so hard to stop them so. It was not the first time that Odin disapproved of a quest and sent his guard, but this was different than them marching on some wyrm's nest. Did he not know that such delays could cost his youngest son his life? Did he not trust Thor to successfully restore the breath to Loki while keeping his own in his lungs?

The questions were dark and insidious things in her mind – making her question where she had long since blindly served, and Sif did not care for them. And so, she cast them aside as the first of Hrodgæir's guard appeared just beyond her hiding place in the trees.

Six men, she counted, and her frown returned again, remembering the six more who would be behind them. At least the Allfather could have sent a serious deployment after them. Didn't he not know that they would fight with their all for Loki? A mere six, and six more, of Asgard's men would not stop them.

Sif cast her thoughts aside, and instead let the threat of battle rise up in her veins. She counted out her heartbeats, waiting until the sixth warrior passed under her perch.

She exhaled.

With her next breath, she leaped, soundlessly knocking the last rider from his mount. Her unfriendly fingers found the pulse points at the man's neck, and squeezed, making sure that he would sleep until long after the fight had past. Fighting one of Asgard's immortal ranks was different than fighting against mortal kind – whose flesh tore and pulse ended so very easily, and she took care to make sure that he would not soon be a threat against them any time soon.

Her seat on the mount was strong and steady – quieting the anxious beast so that he would not give her away. As soon as she was sure the horse would not spook, she stood up straight upon the saddle, reading the path and the silken play of the horse's withers so that she would not lose her balance.

A bend in the path.

She leaped from the last horse to the fifth, and that guard bore the same fate as the last.

By the time she sat upon the back of the forth, the path was thin and narrow, and she didn't dare trust standing straight upon the animal beneath her. Instead she reached for the branch above her, using it as leverage in order to swing herself up and forward to the third guard. Soundlessly, he fell.

In her mind, she counted the seconds. No doubt the second group had found their fallen comrades by now. Ahead, the clearing that she and Thor had spied was coming.

Time to move then.

The second guard actually saw her coming, but her fingers at his throat silenced him. She was too close to Hrodgæir himself to let the man fall away without causing more noise than she was prepared to let, so instead she sat perched behind the unconscious man, holding him aright while she moved in time to the horse in able to perch so upon it.

The clearing came into view, and Sif saw where Thor had tied up Hófvarpnir and Þjálfi at the same moment Hrodgæir did.

"Then where are they?" Hrodgæir looked over his shoulder to question what he thought was his second in command, and instead found Sif ready for him, glaive in her hand and shield waiting at her back.

"Right behind you," she sneered, and struck out with the butt of her weapon, striking for the tender area of the neck between helmet and armor. Hrodgæir dodged her blow, and she reached out with her other hand to tug meanly on the flat horn of his helmet, dismounting him. He struck the ground hard, the sound loud in contrast to Sif's light step as she leapt from the horse, ready to engage him.

Above her, the ravens cawed, flapping angrily about her.

"You have left none for me," Thor's voice complained further into the clearing when he saw that Hrodgæir stood, but none of his men.

Sif smirked, never breaking Hrodgæir's gaze. "On the contrary," she said, just as the sound of pounding hooves could be heard. "I have left six for you."

Thor grumbled, "Such graciousness."

Sif thumbed her nose in the air, before gesturing to Hrodgæir's hip. "Come now, draw your weapon,” she addressed the man. “I shall not have you say that I was unhonourable to you in a fight."

Hrodgæir was still, his expression cruel and sharp. He was an unfortunately handsome man, with high aristocratic features, complete with clear blue eyes and hair seemingly spun from pale gold – like so many of Asgard's children. In the end, he ignored her words in favor of stating his mission. "In the name of Odin Allfather, High King of the First Realm, you are hereby ordered to hand over your weapons and submit to returning with the Bronze Guard back to Asgard."

Thor's smile was sharp. "I am afraid we must decline."

"Respectively," Sif added, extending the reach of her glaive. The sound of the steel slipping was loud in the clearing.

And Hrodgæir sneered. "I had thought you might say so," said he, his hand falling for the hilt of his sword. The metal glinted as it was drawn from its scabbard, and Sif knew from experience that the other man knew how to wield it well.

Years ago, Hrodgæir had been one of the young warriors most vocal against having a maiden training with the elite of the Aesir. His words had instigated many such things from others – both within the warrior caste and beyond, and Sif had spent many a day defending her path with words along with her deeds. At that time, Hrodgæir had yet to solidly beat her in the practice rings – which was the heat and height of his anger against her gender, no doubt. Until, one day, Sif had stood victorious over him in the ring, declaring herself the victor. She had still reached down to help him up, as was honorable, when he had pulled her down in order to jab a hidden dagger deep into her side. The men in the rings that day had been supporters of Hrodgæir, and all had laughed to see the shield-maiden bleed so – Hrodgæir having said that the wound was placed earlier in the fight.

Volstagg – the only one of the fighters there who did so support Sif - had taken her to Eir before she could challenge them; and then, while she was so with the healer, he did spilled the tale to the princes two.

Thor's response had been predictable, and Hrodgæir's wounds sustained at the hands of the Thunderer had been trifle in comparison to what he had born sparring with Sif.

Loki's answer had been more subtle . . . and of a sort that Hrodgæir did not so easily forgive. Or forget. Loki had taken jewels from the keep of the Lady Illa, Hrodgæir's mother, and had thrown them into the sea. At the same time he had forged a letter from Hrodgæir to his sweetheart so promising the jewelry to her. When the letter and the missing jewels had been discovered, Hrodgæir had been razed mightily by his father - and Loki's smile had been snide the next day when he inquired about the missing jewelry. How it must ache to bear the blame for something past his control, Loki had mocked. Something past control – like ones gender or choice of weapons. Hrodgæir had never taken it easy on Sif in the ring in the centuries since then, and they had each left their blows upon the other.

Behind Hrodgæir, the six guards from further on the trail had arrived. Each bore one of their fallen comrades upon their mounts.

Sif felt her teeth bare, even as Thor inquired, "Do you wish for the snake here, or the six?" His tone was light, as if inquiring about the weather.

"I would not so deprive you of your sport," Sif said gracefully.

"Nor I yours," Thor clasped Sif on the shoulder as he passed her – heading for the six with Mjölnir in hand. "Do try not to break anything that cannot be repaired."

"If I must," said Sif, their banter age old between them. Past settling the anger in her bones – how much time they did so waste! - the careless banter of the Thunderer and the shield-maiden had never failed to put those they faced off guard – especially when those they faced knew full well of their strength and reputation.

Sif held as Thor approached the guards beyond Hrodgæir. When the first clash of steel sounded beyond them, Hrodgæir did so say, "Shall we?"

She did not respond, standing still as Hrodgæir began to circle. Always was it so with him – he would charge first, thinking himself quick, and she would sidestep him. He would move to his right as he often favored, and she would shift left, blocking his sword with her shield as he brought his weapon back around to defend himself. Her glaive would then strike at the side of his body he left open.

This time, though, she did not feel the waiting in her bones. Instead she struck first, quick on her feet – like a dancer as she met his block and twisted down and around to slip behind him. _One two three, one two three_ , she remembered the dance mistress teaching her the steps so long ago, and now she repeated them with steel in her hand and war in her heart. Perhaps that was not what Sif's mother had intended when she had insisted on the formal etiquette, but either way – such lessons had allowed her daughter to serve Asgard to her fullest. There was honor in that, Lady Gná had finally acknowledged over time.

"It is treason to strike so against your own," Hrodgæir hissed at her when their blades crossed, faces close enough to play a gross parody of a lover's ease.

Sif's smile turned sharp, a blade set to cut. "It is never treason to strike so against you."

Beyond them, Thor was a force – already few of the six were rising still to fight against him. He struck with his fists, Mjölnir held merely to fend off opposing steel rather than strike herself. He was pulling his punches for his kinsman, she knew, and she smiled at the thought.

Thor never fought back to back with her – with anyone, at that. The battle was his domain, and his glory alone - and so was the violence of his attack that he could level legions while his comrades picked off armies one at a time.

Normally, Sif fought with Loki at her back. She knew the movements of him – the ebb and flow of his fight, and together they were a force enough to rival Thor. She fought best close, and Loki fought best with thrown weapons – spells set for flames, rendering skin asunder and shattering weapons all with the incantations of his tongue rather than the steel in his hand. He was the wind to her rain, and nothing could escape their touch.

Normally, it was her left side he so guarded. She struck right, her shield striking out as a melee weapon, leaving her left side vulnerable. She twisted her upper body as soon as she realized her mistake. Not quickly enough, it did seem, for she felt the sharp kiss of steel at her side.

She made a face, more annoyed than pained as Hrodgæir's sword drew away bloody.

A curse on her tongue, she felt at her side, finding the telling tackiness of blood, seeping through the stays of her armor. Glancing, nothing that would even slow her while traveling, but enough to set her glare in a vexing line. Stupid of her, expecting him so at her back.

Her fist was tight upon the hilt of her glaive.

"You are a silly girl if you think to ride to Niflheimr while not even competent enough to ward off such a simple blow."

Her glaive struck right, her shield left. Hrodgæir stumbled, his balance caught.

She did not respond to him – instead pressing her advantage. Always, his weaknesses had been his feet. His footwork tangled him – normally he was strong enough to defeat an opponent before such was an issue, but Sif was quick and danced more than she bludgeoned an opponent. Where Thor was stronger than Sif – and that would almost always leave him the victor in a true fight – she was quicker and smarter. She was the better fighter in technique. In plan and execution.

She was War itself – and it would do well for Hrodgæir to remember that he did not so face Thor.

Hrodgæir spat blood upon the ground, feinted left, and Sif struck right. He stumbled.

"Why do you even ride for Niflheimr in the first place?" he snorted, incredulous. "You should take the escape we offer – return to Asgard. You realize who it is you fight for, do you not?"

"For _my_ prince," Sif said, a claim in her words that all would be blind to. "For _your_ sovereign."

Hrodgæir laughed outright at that. "By the Allfather's blood only. He is a mockery to the steel of the Aesir. A blight to the house of Odin. Why do you think that the great Allfather wishes you not to take this journey? Even he does not see value in the Silvertongue's life."

Her shield against his head. His helmet cracked with the force of her blow.

"Watch your own tongue," she ordered him sharply. She could feel the battle rage lurk within her veins – behind her eyes, in the furious tattoo of her heart against her chest.

"Only Hel would find worth in his useless soul," still Hrodgæir chortled, for he would never think Loki's soul to find peace in Valhalla, the golden hall for those most honorable of warriors. The thought of Loki's worth was so far past him. "So strike against Death for him – die there! And what a fitting match in Hel's hall you shall make; the unnatural girl and the useless prince."

Sif snarled at the implication in his words. In his taunts she saw all of Asgard's laughing court. She heard their whispers against their second – against her. She heard their laughter, a memory, as Loki's mouth was sewn shut. The symphony of mockery and rage rang in her ears. It incensed her, making the steel in her veins molten as centuries worth of frustration finally came to a point and boiled over.

This time, Sif's cry was mighty as she struck against him – and there was none of the curbed blows she bore for those the same of her blood. There was just the violence in her veins left to her. The fear she felt for Loki was a flame beneath her heart, igniting her. Her frustration and her pain finally spilled over until she thought of nothing more than silencing him with her blows until he could say no more ever again. Did he not know that Loki was Sif's strength, and Sif's strength was Loki's? She dared the fates to frown upon that.

"A fitting gift to Hel you _yourself_ shall make," Sif sneered as she leveled one last blow against him – striking his hand, sending his sword clattering upon the ground. His hand was broken, she had heard the bones shatter – knew the shape and sound of his scream from experience as it rendered upon the air so.

He was crumbling before her – red and brown organic matter smearing against the soft pastel tones of the clearing.

Her glaive was held loosely in her left hand – but it was not the satisfaction of her steel cutting skin she needed, but the sensation of blood upon her knuckled she so craved. She drew her fist back, and was surprised when a grasp encircled it.

Instinctively, she struck back against who had caught her so, her fingers pointed and seeking, undoing the dagger in her sleeve. But it never made it to the throat behind her. Thor's exclamation of "Sif!" drawing her ear and her mind as she stayed her blow.

The battle lust snapped from her veins, and she calmed in her friend's hold.

"You would have killed him!" exclaimed Thor when he finally released her, his blue eyes harsh.

"Yes," she let the word tumble from her mouth, still hoarse and battle born. Yes, she would have. In that moment, he had embodied all that had struck against her for years, and did still threaten to tear asunder all she held dear and -

"By the Norn's teeth, but I would have," she said repeated, letting her face fall into her hands as she sickened with the implications of her actions. Rare was it that she so lost herself to the beserker rage that some her comrades so favored – a warrior without control was a dead one, and she already bore enough handicaps with her sex to surrender her mind and sanity in the heat of battle.

She sheathed her glaive with shaking fingers. It stuck in its straps. She felt her stomach lurch.

Thor, who was watching her closely, sighed, deep and from his chest. "Let us move the bodies further up on the trail – no doubt the next group will find them there."

Sif nodded, her cheeks still bright as she moved to the soldier nearest to her feet. She would let Thor take Hrodgæir, not trusting herself to not deal the man a further injury, even though the battle was done and she had proven herself the better once more.

They worked in silence, moving their comrades and tying their mounts, until the task was done and they were free to push north once more. Closer and closer to the gates of Niflheimr.

 

.  
.

Higher on the pass, where the rocky crags saw all, Macha chortled merrily when she saw how her shield sister laid waste to the guard.

"I truly do like this one, sister," she approved, striking her boot with her riding crop in her mirth. "What a glorious little spit fire she is."

Anann's smile was wry. "Indeed, I cannot imagine what you would find to like."

"She should have killed him," Macha still snorted. "It is men like that who give the warring caste a bad name."

Anann was silent. "I think that there has been enough blood spilled in these realms to last a hundred lifetimes. The Thunderer was right to stay her hand."

Macha's raised brow said what she thought of that, but she kept her words to herself.

Anann sighed, and drew two corked vials from her coat. She handed one to Macha and one to Badb. Badb took the vial without blinking, and threw the contents back. Macha made a face as she uncorked hers, before swallowing the potion as a child may a healer's tonic.

Anann took the vials from her sisters, and waited. Before her, the familiar features of her sisters shifted – Badb's pale and grey tones warmed, taking on the shades of honeyed gold and sky kissed blue. The warriors garb over her body morphed – taking on the high plates of Asgard, and a long fall of red – sweeping down to cover her white mount, just like the one Thor was riding.

Macha's bright red hair darkened, taking on the shade of night, her freckles fading and her fiery eyes darkening to a hazel tone. Soon, she looked at Anann from the shield-maiden's eyes, an exact replica of the Lady Sif's every feature.

"Well, how do we look?" said Macha with Sif's voice. Badb smiled grimly with Thor's full mouth.

"Good enough to fool Huginn and Muninn," Anann decided.

Beyond them, Odin's ravens circled, regrouping. Their cries split the air, thundering.

Anann glanced up, her sharp eyes searching. Macha was tight with Sif's glare, Badb a weight with Thor's might.

"Come now, my sisters, let us give something for Odin to truly chase," as Anann spoke, her eyes flared with her power, the wind whipping around her until she too wore the feathers of the raven, a shadow to her sisters as they took an alternate road north – far away from the true riders so as to let them continue on uninterrupted by their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Huginn and Muninn** : Odin's ravens, 'thought' and 'memory', respectively, whom Odin used to scout and see over all nine of the realms, and Midgard especially. Odin was refereed to as the Raven-god often in the myths, which made it even more interesting to pit Anann against him here, as well - whose symbol is also the raven, or the crow.
> 
>  **Fulla** : Frigg's confidant, and handmaiden, who may even have been her sister.
> 
>  **Gná and Hófvarpnir** : In the myths, Lady Gná is Frigg's messenger, who had a horse who could travel over both air and sea. I liked giving Sif a mother with just as unconventional a role in the court as Sif, and the name of Sif's mare just fell into place.
> 
>  **Trúfinr Mountains** : My own creation, by putting together the terms for 'truth' and 'finger' to name the mountains. I apologize in advance for my linguistic butchering. ;)
> 
>  **Berserker** : Norse men who fashioned themselves to be 'Odin's special warriors', who fought in a vicious, trace like state during battle. Some theories have these warriors purposely drugging themselves before warring, in order to reach that frame of mind when fighting.


	8. upon the northern most bridge

They continued north.

Around them, the landscape changed. The idyllic wooded lands – with their bright clearings and their blue brooks turned rugged. The gay meadows silenced themselves – they grew cold, the grass of them hidden beneath frost and snow. The young wood gave to the thick density of the primeval forest – where the trees were ancient and deeply rooted, their boughs harsh and twisting. The foothills gave way to the low slopes of the Trúfinr mountains until the path became tricky before them.

Often, they found themselves stopping in order to make sure that their course remained true with the one Frigg had set out for them. Nine days and nine nights laid between Asgard and the northern most bridge, but that number could rise rapidly if care was not taken to keep their steps straight. There was but one route to the other side of the mountains that lead true. All others would lead to the northern side of the Trúfinr mountains – but far away from the bridge over the river Gjöll.

For the most part, their travel was spent in silence. Thor immersed himself with reading the trail, and Sif paid attention to her seat upon her mount with the tricky terrain. She tried to keep her thoughts from swirling away from her, but it was a long fought battle, hardly won.

They traveled through that first night, and did not stop to rest until the eve of the second day, when they had reached one of the lowest peaks of Trúfinr's great range. There were clearings from the trees where the stone dominated all; and here hot springs were nestled into the crook of the mountains. The height of their camp let them have a full view of the pass they had just traveled, while at the same time offering them protection from the strong wind that dominated the air that high above the low grounds.

Wordlessly, they went about setting up camp. Sif took the tack from both of their mounts, and unpacked the saddlebags - rolling out the furs they would use for bedding, and readying the provisions they had brought for a cooked dinner. While she was scooping out feed for the horses, she looked over to her companion and said, "We have seen no more of your father's guard."

"Perhaps we lost them?" Thor hazarded the only logical thought that he could think of, but his frown said that he believed the words as much as Sif did.

"Perhaps," she muttered as Hófvarpnir butted her hand, as if knowing that something was amiss. She rubbed absently at the horse's silky muzzel until she found her feed more interesting than her mistress once more.

Thor glanced up at her, his blue eyes offering a confidence she felt far from her dissented bones. When he turned away from her, he set about making the fire, muttering under his breath the whole way through. He had collected the wood easily enough – the woods were still thick here, and the trees fell easily to Mjölnir's might and Thor's restless strength. Still, the flames were slow to be coaxed from Thor's hands.

When his first few attempts at producing a spark proved fruitless, the blade and the stone in Thor's hand stilled. His back hunched, and the strong lines of his shoulders turned tight. She could read the grief in him when he would not meet her eyes.

And she understood. Normally, Sif reflected with a pang, such a job belonged to Loki – who could summon a flame by snapping his fingers. The rest of them never had to learn this skill well – for Loki was always a shadow to their group when they took to their quests and their battles, no matter how much he may have spoken against such things.

Wordlessly, Sif took the stone from Thor. She struck it once, twice, and the kindle before her sparked. She blew upon the small flame, urging it to devour the petty wood. It warmed. Tongues of fire, high and hot, started to ignite the smaller logs, until, soon, the whole of the wood was poised to burn slow and steady throughout the night.

Thor was silent as she worked, his gaze lost far past her – to the north. His wide mouth, normally made for smiles, was grim. Taut. It was not a look she cared for on him.

Gently, she let her hand rest upon his shoulder. He leaned into her touch for just a moment – comfort passed and acknowledged, before he stood once more.

"Normally, such a task belongs to Loki," Thor defended, the hot blush on his face not only from the flames before them.

She let her smile answer his words, knowing that he needed such from her. "Well then,” she said, “we must restore your snake of a brother to full health so that he can continue to coax the fires to start themselves. We shall all go cold and hungry if we trust our camp to you." Her words started teasing, but there was a weight behind them that she did not care for. Her skin crawled about her bones as if she were a snake herself, preparing for new scales in some hidden part of the underbrush.

Thor's laugh in response was short, and soft. Silence soon came again between them. She clenched her hands in response to it; setting her mouth into a thin line.

As the fire grew, she set out the splits and spices from her saddlebag. Across from her, Thor set about cleaning the rabbits they had felled just before breaking to make camp. Sif let him prepare the meal without offering her aid – for all of her talents, every one of her companions knew better than to expect a tasty meal from the shield-maiden. Long had Sif been the roll of her mother's eyes in the kitchen. Lady Gná had given up teaching her daughter much around the same time that they discovered that Thor was actually more than halfway descent when it came to preparing meals – and Volstagg better than all. Often, Loki had teased them for the domestic duo the two had made, and -

Sif felt her throat turn full at the memories, even fond though they were. She swallowed against the feeling, restless, even after two days straight of travel. She had yet to tire.

Tucking the frown away from her mouth, she grabbed her bag of toiletries and said over her shoulder to Thor, "I'm going to make use of the hot springs first, if you don't mind."

He waved a hand. "Enjoy yourself. I shall have the meal prepared by the time you return."

Even after so long together, she couldn't quite keep away the tug at her lips over the reversed roles between them – made so endearing simply because Thor would never imagine that things should ever be anything different.

Easily, Sif picked a path back through the rocky way. The low parts of the Trúfinr mountains were well known to her, for she had spent most of her childhood exploring and learning in Asgard's broad expanses before she and her companions had been old enough to turn to other realms to explore. The springs that dotted the mountains had many such memories for her, but she pushed them away, not yet needing their weight before she had restored her own to her. Then, remember she would, and remember she would well.

The hot springs were fed from a rolling tributary deep beneath the mountains, warmed by the heart of their world. Her peoples legends said that Asgard had been formed by a fallen star. Yggdrasil had seen the brilliant orb dying in the night sky while she was creating the cosmos, and rather than let the star fall, she had caught it, and infused it with her own love and devotion. The star was so moved by mother Yggdrasil that it allowed its light to be saved – and Yggdrasil did so fashion Goðheimr from its heat, placing the celestial realm on her highest boughs to serve as a beacon for every soul who resided on her branches. Asgard was as much Yggdrasil's eyes, as Midgard was her beating heart. Even Múspellsheimr, the second world of creation, made of molten rock and fiery flame, envied the heat and glory of Asgard eternal.

Steam made the mossy rocks around the spring cloudy and dim. She could smell the hot clean smell of the water, and the scent soothed her. Where she had originally intended to bathe quickly and return to Thor, she instead lingered, feeling the hot water work at her muscles until she could almost believe them to be relaxed, free of their tension. The cut on her side from Hrodgæir's blade was already healing over, the skin pink and pearly against her seeking fingers. She stayed in the water until her skin started to prune, and then past that even, taking the extra time to clean the plates of her armor and the leathers that connected them all. She dried and dressed in plain cloths for the night, scooping her hair sloppily into a bun at the base of her head, knowing that it would dry in curls, and caring little.

When she made it back to their camp, Thor was already cutting his portion away from the meal he had cooked. Sif sat gratefully across from him, and then took the plate he offered her. She picked at the meat with her fingers, and washed the meal down with ale enough to warm her stomach and cloud her thoughts pleasantly in her mind.

Thor poked at the fire more than he ate himself, stirring the embers and making the flames flash white and hot against the shadows around them. Sif let him continue on in silence, only breaking the peace in order to compliment his cooking.

He finally rose, leaving his plate, and Sif thought him to be taking his turn with the springs beyond, when he instead walked three paces away from the fire, and then three steps back towards his place again. His stride was restless as he paced, his hand holding his chin, stroking the low stubble of his beard.

Sif raised a brow, and asked, "Is all well?" even though she knew it not to be.

He never did need much coaxing to speak full of his mind. "Why did my father not trust me to go after the cure for Loki?" Thor finally blurted the question that had held his silence and his furrowed brow since facing Hrodgæir and his guard.

Sif blinked at the question, feeling the ale she had drank swirl in her stomach as she thought of how to answer. "Perhaps," she started slowly, knowing well of the weight her words would bear, "it was not a question of trust that forced his hand, but affection." For it was the only answer she could think truly upon. "Niflheimr's dangers are past anything we have yet to fight – and you are Odin's heir and great delight. Of course he would rather stay your journey."

Thor rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, before carding it restlessly up through his hair. "Then why not such affection for Loki?" asked he. The question was a sword, fatally aimed. "Why pick one son over the other, rather than letting the fates take their course?"

Sif bit her lip, feeling her words rise within her. Better had she always been with blows, and now . . .

Across from her, Thor sat back down – the movement more of a controlled fall as he bowed his great form before the fire. "Perhaps Father was right to not allow me to travel so to Niflheimr. I have abused what trust he did have in me . . . It is _my_ fault that Loki fell to Anann's poison. It was _my_ foolishness that harmed him . . . he has always been there to get me out of trouble, and this time my folly was too great for him to fix."

Sif did not agree with that. "Loki has ever been the cause of more than a fair share of your mischief," she argued.

Thor snorted.

Sif placed down her plate, her ale too. Carefully, she picked her way around the fire, and took a seat next to Thor. Gently, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. He was massive under her touch, strong and unbending. An oak tree lost to the storm. She said then, and hoped her words would heal what blows had been thoughtlessly laid, "Loki has always loyally followed you – but he has never done so blindly. He knows the dangers of every battle – as we all do. If Loki were to fall here, or any of us while upon your path – know that it is through our choice, not through some folly of your own."

Thor was still unyielding before her. "He warned me away from this battle. I did not listen."

"And you truly think you will pay heed next time Loki advises you away from doing something foolish?" Sif challenged. She needed to think of the future of an absolute. She could not yet consider it any other way.

Thor's laugh, when it came, was rueful. "Most likely not."

"Your father," Sif said then, speaking to the heart of the matter that plagued Thor's mind. How many times had she to speak to each of the sons of Odin about their father's regard? Too many times, and in a rare moment, she felt dissatisfaction with her lord and king. How great he governed Asgard and Yggdrasil eternal. How often he faltered with that he held dearest to him. "Your father," she had to start again, "trusts you. He has such a faith in the king you will someday become. Just as Loki does. Just as I do." Brash and impulsive though her friend was, it was his heart that would govern his reign. Time would smooth and fix the rest – even Loki, with all of his words against the idea of Thor leading Asgard, agreed with that.

Thor's smile upon her was brilliant – the sun after the rain. "You truly think so?"

"I know so," she said. "We have always been ready to follow you – to Hel and back, if need be."

"Be careful," said he. "That may be a vow you can soon keep."

"If we are very lucky," Sif agreed.

Thor breathed in deep then, his lungs filling and expanding. Sif squeezed once more about his shoulder, and then let her hand fall away. It was rare that her first was attacked by self doubt so . . . or, at any rate, that he gave voice to those doubts. Sometimes, she knew that even she was amongst those who underestimated the Thunderer. What a weight he had upon him for the future – for all of their futures. Odin left impossible footprints to fill, but Sif truly did believe that Thor could strike an even better path than his father. Strength and steel being combined with such a passion, such a love for Asgard and all she represented.

"Now, eat," she commanded. "Your hard work goes cold."

"As always," Thor said, "you are the epitome of wisdom."

"Please," Sif snorted. "I am just too tired to beat your melancholy from you. Next time, I shall smear your face in the mud rather than have my tongue trip out pearls of wisdom." That, at least, was true.

Thor laughed outright at that. "So my lady threatens."

"So the lady promises," Sif countered.

"Such a delicate clarification," Thor teased.

"And don't you forget their difference," Sif struck her nose up arrogantly, once again picking around the fire to where her pile of furs were waiting. The meal and the ale had settled in her stomach, and her words with Thor had helped with the restlessness of her own doubts; her troubling thoughts and uncertainties. Tomorrow would be the third day. Only six more until they reached the bridge Gjallarbrú. The thought was kindle in her mind, igniting the warring spark she could feel deep inside of her.

She settled in for the night, not realizing how truly tired she was until she did so. She glanced at Thor before closing her eyes, and said. "Don't stay awake for too long. You need to rest too. Niflheimr awaits us, after all."

"Indeed it does," Thor's voice was soft, almost lost to Sif between exhale and crackle from the dwindling fire between them.

She settled back, her eyes finding the stars above them. She counted them out, one at a time – remembering times past spent that very same way. Her body remembered being held on nights quite like this, leaving her cold then, bereft of remembered warmth. Her mind remembered the tales Loki would tell – naming the constellations and telling their stories until even the stars themselves were devoid of secrets. And so, it was with his voice in her ear that she finally found it within herself to sleep.

 

.  
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Sif dreamed.

In her mind's realm, she was young again – so very young. Young enough so that her hair still gleamed golden, catching the twilight from where it was twisted into a dozen braids upon her head. Lady Gná had made her sit through the process of plaiting it so, insisting that her daughter would thank her after spending a week in the wild without having to worry over her hair.

She had just been past her third century – as had the Princes two, and Volstagg had had the honor of taking them out for their first sojourn away from Asgard's capitol city. Fandral and Hogun, new friends each, had joined them as well – camaraderie having been sparked and then forged within the practice rings. Volstagg, eldest, and old enough to even remember marching in the Great War, had obtained permission from Odin Allfather to teach them the secrets of forest trekking – tracking and capturing game, all while learning to be self sufficient far from the luxuries of the palace.

Sif remembered that she had had some great difficulties when it came to starting a fire unaided. It was a lesson in humility for her – for she had been able to get her tent up quicker than Fandral and Hogun had been able to raise theirs, and she had boasted that a maiden could so raise her dwelling before her comrades of the stronger sex. Fandral had quipped that it was her inner homemaker that had let her raise the tent so fast, and she may or may not have kicked the main beam that supported their lopsided tent – grim Hogun glaring at Fandral all the while for his loose tongue.

In the end, Thor and Volstagg had moved to help the other two, while Loki made snide comments from the side. The cheat had used magic to raise his and Thor's tent the quickest, Fandral had accused, but Sif could not join in on the tuant - for Loki had offered to do the same for hers, and she would not slight his good will. She had declined, at any rate, wishing to truly learn the skill on her own before she accepted such shortcuts, but it was the thought behind the offer that pleased her.

While Volstagg tried to puzzle out just how Fandral had managed to cross _that_ line of the tent with _that_ line to produce _that_ sagging side, Sif sat apart from them all and tried for the dozenth time she attempted to get the kindle to burn. When the flame stubbornly refused to answer her call, she mumbled a curse under her breath, glaring at the wood before her as if the heat of her ire alone would make the blasted thing spark. She was still glaring mightily when Loki knelt down next to her, the grin on his face the type which she normally would hit him for. "Milady, what has the wood done to you to deserve you insulting its lineage so?"

Her scowl was mighty upon her face. "It refuses to light."

"A grievous offense, indeed," Loki snickered.

She glared over crossly at him, and contemplated sending her next spark at him. It would serve him right. Him and his laughing eyes and teasing mouth, and -

She struck her blade against the sparking stone, hitting it harder with her annoyance. Finally, a small tongue of flame appeared from her efforts, set to ignite. She stared in amazement at the flame she had produced, her eyes reflecting the heat of it.

"I did it," she stammered, amazed. "I did it!"

"Well done, indeed," Loki congratulated her dryly, but not before she could see the plume of smoke he brushed away from his own hand. He was not quick enough to hide it from her.

The rise of victory in her faded, even as the flame before her leapt higher, consuming the kindle to eat at the wood. "Loki," she said, most seriously. "Did you start the fire for me?"

"And why would I do that?" he returned, his tone derisive enough for her to almost believe him. She set her jaw, made her gaze a blow.

"I do not know – perhaps you can tell me," said she, rising enough on her knees so that she could prop her hands on her hips, still narrow and straight with a child's lines.

Loki snorted. "The fire started at your own hand," he waved his own. "And that is that."

"Surely," Sif said dryly, looking down at the stone in her hand, the polished line of her blade. She felt a frown hook upon her mouth, even as the heat from the fire warmed her.

Beside her, Loki sighed. "Here," said he, taking the stone and blade from her hand. "This is what you are doing wrong." Slowly, he struck the blade against the stone, exaggerating the angle and the force of the blow until she saw where she had gone wrong. Next time, when she struck the blow, the sparks she produced were strong and bright – more than enough to make kindle burn. She felt her smile strike true, triumphant at the skill learned.

"Thank-you," she said, the soft sincerity in her tone drawing a baffled look from Loki. He did not understand why she preferred learning the task herself, rather than having it preformed within moments from a whisper upon his mouth.

Still, there was a faint blush upon his cheeks as he waved her thanks away. "It was nothing," he mumbled, and she elbowed him at the feeling in his voice.

She looked down at the blade in her grasp; at his long hands just inches from her own. She was happy in that moment – far from home, with the forest air filling her lungs, and smoke from their fire thick before her eyes.

She had blinked then. Looked up.

And then found that the memory was no longer her own.

Instead of the slip of a boy Loki had been, the shadow to her childhood, there was the man she had come to adore so very fiercely.

Next to her, his eyes were shadowed, even with the flickering light of the fire before them - they were as dark bruises in the pale expanse of his face, alarming with the violet cast of them. His skin was pallid with his sickness, much as it had been when she had left him in Eir's keep. An odd golden light played about his skin, like the charms that were keeping his body in stasis. Understanding rolled against her sleeping mind, like the waves against the shore, cleansing it.

Sif leaned forward, as if to touch him, and her hair was once again long and rich and as black as the night when it slipped over her shoulder. Her hand was long and fine boned, the twist of it naming a woman rather than the child the memory had belonged to. She understood, then, that her dream was shared.

Eir had said that Loki would dream, keeping his mind alive where his body could not actively be, but Sif had not thought him capable of him reaching out to her when she herself laid down to sleep. Over the centuries, Loki had developed the power of sharing dreams. As children, he had done it quite often with both herself and Thor, and those nighttime adventures had been fanciful, amazing things that remained some of her fondest memories. As the years rolled on, such youthful escapades were no longer needed in face of the paths their waking hours often took, and the shared dreams remained something that was Sif and Loki's alone.

She felt feeling bubble in her throat. For all of her bluster - so deciding that they would save Loki, no matter what – in the furthest point of her mind, she did know doubt. Now, he was there, tangible before her, and she felt the whole of her blacker emotions collapse upon her. It was a weight upon her shoulders, smothering her, and she felt her lungs struggle with each breath. Her eyes burned as embers upon her face, and she hoped that the heat of them would do to keep the tears she could feel gathering at bay.

"I remember this," Loki said, gazing at the scenery of her dream. His voice was a dull echo in his throat, rasping; the sound a defilement of his voice when hale and whole, It tore at her. Still, a wicked humor gleamed in his sick eyes, as familiar as ever. "Thor and Fandral nearly burned the Trúfinr forests to nothing more than ash and a few twisting twigs; which was almost as interesting as watching Volstagg try to explain to Father why he camped us in a clearing that belonged to the Draugr. I do believe that that was our first time battling such spirits," Loki mused thoughtfully. “Thankfully, someone's new skills with sparks and flame was useful in defeating the wraiths, and Thor did not loose too much of his soul – only the part so governing common sense.”

The memory tugged at Sif, pulling upon the tender parts of her stomach. His voice snapped the shock that had colored her mind, coaxing the stillness from her bones. Without really registering her movements, she was rising, shifting up from her crosslegged position in order to close the few paces between them. She fell down besides him, wrapping her arms about his shoulders, and burying her nose into the hollow his neck and shoulder created in a sloppy embrace. She could feel his smile against her hair – a teasing hook to its curve that she would normally do her utmost to take from him. She truly did not care in that moment, especially when he raised his arms and held on to her nearly as tightly as held on to him. How she could feel his heart beat, entwined like this. She could feel his breath stir her hair. Alive. He was _alive_. While she knew this to be so, the tangible feel of him was a balm she could not describe, and her breath came tight and tremulous in her chest with the rise of her emotions.

"I thought," she started to babble, her voice a foreign sound on her lips. For when had Sif ever spoken so? With such a desperation? Such a relief? "I thought that we were going to lose you . . . when Anann's antidote did not work . . ." Such a fear, such a sick spin her world had taken. "I . . ." she could not put her emotions into words, but still he understood, his hold on her tightening in reply to her words. One hand rubbed soothing circles on her back, while the other lifted to card through her hair. The dark locks were his work, thick and glorious about his fingers, and as always the gesture calmed her like nothing else.

Her hair was still damp about his fingers, holding the heat of the springs. She felt a smile touch her face along with the memory – remembering how many times he had cut away from their group in order to join her in the springs in times past. The Three and Thor knew better than to disturb her, and never did they think twice when Loki took to the shadows while the rest set up camp; and often Sif would find the shadows of the water parting to mischievous green eyes and clever hands. She opened her mouth, to share the memory, when Loki spoke first.

"I heard you, that first night," Loki said, as if revealing a great secret. "I can feel your presence even more so, the further north you travel."

She parted from him, curious. "Eir had hazarded guesses about how well your awareness was."

"I can feel Eir moving about right beyond me, even as I can sense you," Loki said; his voice ever thoughtful, ever curious. "I can hear her, she speaks to Frigg this night, comparing words from the Lyfja Codex with other such texts. I can hear beyond you as well, Thor's snores are enough to wake those in Hel's realm – I do not know how you stand it."

Sif rolled her eyes, feeling a warm glow swallowing the cold stone that had been her heart. "Your brother was quite remorseful this eve, I'd have you know. You should not tease him so."

"As he should be," Loki sniffed haughtily.

She rolled her eyes, and shifted enough in his embrace to elbow him, annoyed.

"You cannot strike a dying man," Loki protested.

"How fitting that I journey to heal you, then."

She hit him again, just for emphasis, and he looked at her, wounded. "And what was that one for?" he protested, again.

"Your stupidity!" exclaimed she, her brow set crossly. "Drinking Anann's venom, without knowing that there was an antidote, or whether or not we could save you so."

"Thor would have done the same," said Loki. " _You_ would have done the same."

Sif set her jaw, unable to argue his truths. "That is besides the point - your life is not only your own, and should you ever barter it away so easily again, I shall not travel so far so to restore it to you."

"My lady so promises me." Always, promise rather than threat with him. She felt her sad smile stretch, not quite meeting the corners of her eyes. She reached out, and held his face with one hand. She rested her thumb high on his cheekbone, warm against his cold skin – not cool as it normally was, but cold and clammy. Sick as with fever. The reminder tugged at her, pulling until she could feel her eyes hot and heavy within her skull. Something burned there, its heaviness a weight that held her down.

"I do not know what I would do without you," she whispered. The words were a leap to her. As much as their relationship meant to her, all to often, it was based on things unspoken. So closed was Loki at times, and so fierce was she – he rarely spoke of the emotions in his eyes, lest he unsettled her, and she was quite the same. Now she felt the possibility of an end approaching, and feeling was thick and smothering inside of her.

He covered her hand with his own, tilting his head in order to brush a kiss across her palm. His lips were cool, dry, and still she shivered. "Then I shall endeavor to stay here until you return," his silver tongue, made honest and true by the worry in the shield-maidens eyes.

She nodded, her throat working. "See that you do." She tried to make the words a threat, it came out a plea.

A moment passed. She counted out his heartbeats. "How long can you stay?" she asked then.

"As long as need be," said he. His eyes were a mystical glow to the gathering shadows around them. Always, they had enraptured her so.

Sif breathed in deep, and said, "The sun does not rise for at least five more candlemarks.” She shifted in Loki's hold so that she could lay down before the fire. He moved with her, shadowing her as she pressed her back to his chest. She covered his hands with her own when he wrapped his arms around her, clenching him tight. For how she wished for him to surround her in that moment. "So, get comfortable, my lord – I intend for you to stay until the dawn breaks."

"As my lady commands," his voice was a whisper against her ear, the cadence of him soothing enough so that she could ignore just how tired the tremor sounded.

She exhaled deep, felt his chest rise and fall so behind her – a promise in the rhythm. This time, when she slept, she did so without dreams.

 

.  
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Nine days passed like so. And then, the morning after the ninth night, they reached the bridge Gjallarbrú.

Upon cresting the Trúfinr mountains, the scenery drastically changed. Instead of horizon, the great flare of the cosmos swelled beyond – swirling glorious and tremulous, wild with every colour of the spectrum and the bright brilliance of too many stars to count. Instead of land, once the mountain range ended, there was the river Gjöll, and the nothingness of the black ether that made up great Yggdrasil's boughs.

And then, there was the bridge so leading to Niflheimr.

Unlike the bridge of the bifröst which seemed to be made of starlight and every color imaginable in the spectrum, the Gjallarbrú was made of pure white crystal. Gold threaded through the build of it – making it glimmer against the violence of the cosmos beyond. Sif could see no formation of it save for a single thread of gold that was seemingly hung from the stars above. She set her jaw, not nearly trusting the formation of such a thing. Below, the river Gjöll swam with starry orbs of light. Souls, she realized, sickening – souls that had yet to find their way into Hel's realm.

There was no end of the bridge in sight. The other side was shrouded by the violence of the cosmos. Only Móðguðr's blessing would so allow the other end of the bridge to be reached, she knew. Once the bridge maiden allowed it to be so, the other end would lead into Niflheimr itself.

She breathed in deep, and did her best to quiet her mount beneath her. The great roan mare had taken to prancing nervously at the dark ether that so composed the bridge beyond, and Sif could feel the animal's warning in her very veins.

Thor's look was dark. His clear eyes cloudy. "We move forward then."

Móðguðr was already ready for their arrival. The bridge maiden may at one point in time have been a daughter of the Jötnar – for she was older than even the Firstborn of creation, already living when Odin's father's father lived in the time of the Great Beginning. Her skin was shadowed blue, her eyes deep and fiery. She stood tall – heads taller than even Thor, who towered over even his fellow Aesir. Her eyes were flames, but unlike the scarlet of her kinsman, her gaze was elemental – like starfire, ever burning. Her form was not wholly substantial – she flickered in and out of sight, in time with the heartbeat like song of the cosmos beyond. Where her skin was like smoke about her body, her bones were solid and whole – long and iron cast, silhouetted by the shades of her form. She looked to share her body with soulless Niflheimr and the world of the living, both.

She spook before them, her voice a deep and ancient thing that rattled in the ground beneath their feet rather than directly in their ears. "Who art thou on thy white and fiery steed?" Sif could not tell if the woman's voice asked truly, or mocked. "Tell me, at once, thy race and home."

They were close enough to the bridge to hear the mighty song of the river below; the rise and fall of the nebulae, and the hiss of the whistling of the stars beyond. Sif sat straighter in her saddle, her eyes only seeing the unseen end of the bridge, imagining what awaited them there.

"It is Thor Odinson, and Sif Týrdottir, who so seek passage over your bridge," Thor declared, his voice force enough to match Móðguðr's.

Móðguðr's smile was very white, her teeth sharp as she grinned. "It twas only yestermorn when five troops of souls so march'd past thine post – bound so for Hel Queen's realm. And thou hast flesh and colour on thy cheeks – like men who live, and draw the vital air. Not look'st thou pale and wan, like a man deceased."

"Nay, bridge maiden, we are still very much amongst the living," Thor answered her.

"Ah," her grin hooked. "Then why dost thou seek'st dread Hel's realm?"

"We march so for the waters of Hvergelmir," Thor revealed their destination. "We seek to draw upon the spring of the Underway, in order to heal the second son of Odin – he called Loki, prince of Asgard."

"Loki Odinson, say thee?" Móðguðr repeated thoughtfully, her skeletal hands folding before her, the blue shadows of her form flickering. "Dost thou not know of the wyrm that so guard'st the spring of Hvergelmir?"

"Nay, I do not," Thor answered true.

"The wyrm call'st Níðhöggr?" Móðguðr gave the name. "Nests so the great wyrm of at the mouth of Hvergelmir spring." She gestured to the river before them, and the souls, ever searching. "Those departed of life's breath seek'st not Hel's halls, and yet thee shall do so for one of kindred blood and little of life's time left?"

"Dragons scare me not," Thor so declared, his grin sharp. "Neither do the threats of Niflheimr and the realm of Hel. I would travel there and further for my brother's soul."

Móðguðr continued her appraisal, her gaze long and searching. Thor tilted his chin up, and let her look undisputed. "Thine-self dost believe thou to speak true. Know'st so the risks of hale souls passing through Hel-realm? If so, take thy risks and come forth. Ofter thy token – for the realm beyond doth not be reached with not of sacrifice. Blood and greed is the living as oppos'ed to the dead. As such, thy fare must be pay'est."

Thor inclined his head. "We are prepared to pay your toll." Carefully, he reached into his saddlebag, and withdrew the leather pouch that the queen had given him. From the lip of the pouch, gold gleamed, the brilliance of the necklace blinding so near the bridge of the dead.

He tossed the pouch to the bridge maiden, who caught the treasure without looking. When she so held the trinket in her hand, her form became substantial. Her hand was whole – skin soft and living, even as the illusion faded further up her arm. Her second hand, when she picked the pouch open, was still the bare form of a skeleton, far removed from life. "Brísingamen," Móðguðr rumbled. "forg'ed by Ivaldi master-smith to secure Frigg Queen's hand as bride. Symbolic so this is of tawny Midgard's wealth, the glory of the fields that did so birth his queen to be . . ."

"The only," Thor did so confirm. Sif sat straight at his side, ready to cross the bridge maiden should she not declare the token worthy enough.

But she had not needed to fear. "It 'tis worthy," said Móðguðr. "Thee may pass."

Both of them took a step forward, but still Móðguðr held up a skeletal hand. "Yet, Hel-traveler, I shall still caution thee. Thy realm just beyond swirls with shades and the realm of Mara Night-thief. Tarry not in the mists; make it quickly to Hel-Hall, for thy land beyond is cruel and empty - and such a cold shall covet thy own soul. Surrender'est such, and never shall thou'st feet tread across thine bridge a second time."

"We are so warned," Thor gave their understanding.

"Thee are so promis'ed," Móðguðr countered. With that, she moved from the entrance of the bridge, waving a hand so that the mists concealing the path did part. Now, all that waited was for them to prove their mettle. Their steel bones and veins. No longer would the bridge maiden stop them.

Besides her, Thor breathed in deep. Sif mirrored him.

Slowly, he coaxed his mount forward. The horse snorted, as if he would balk before finally giving in. He hesitated where the dead grass and black rock stopped, and the bridge began. Another coaxing click from Thor, and then the stallion started to pick across the crystal bridge with careful feet. A second's time, and Sif followed as well.

As they crossed, their steps echoed mournfully on the bridge. Above them, the golden strand creaked ominously, seemingly not nearly enough to support the bridge, yet alone their added weight. And still, it glowed brighter the closer they came, and Sif understood then that it was Móðguðr's power that kept the bridge standing – without her approval, the thread would snap, and her travelers would find themselves lost with the dark souls swimming the river Gjöll restlessly beneath them. Sif looked down, and felt her stomach twist upon seeing the spirits in the water – formless things that cried out to the travelers above. They had no faces, no eyes, and yet she could hear the screams of them, ever searching.

She locked her jaw. Made her gaze steel. Onward they walked.

And then they came to the end of the bridge. Sif frowned, for it seemed as if the bridged merely cut off before reaching the other side. The path ended, but all that awaited them was a fall into the cosmos. The nothingness of the stars. How they would burn were they to consume the ether that did make up the travelers of flesh and bone.

"The bridge goes no farther," said Sif, puzzled.

Thor eyed the black drop beneath them – nothing but the dark ether of space, and the gases of nebulae far beyond. Such a fall would not end well, Sif so thought.

But Thor trusted more than she. "Onward still," he decided.

She balked. "Thor, are you mad?" she so protested.

"Are we not setting our feet on the path to Niflheimr?" Thor countered. "Móðguðr would let no living soul with so faint a heart into the world that did so create us all. So, I saw we trust, and go where the bridge would have us follow."

"It is fools who trust the bridge so," said Sif, eying the lip of the bridge with unparalleled distaste.

"Then trust me," Thor said, the gentleness of his voice lending it a coaxing power that Sif had yet to hear from her friend; her leader. There was no ire with her insubordination on his face, just a patience. She felt like a child before him then, certain of terrors in the night as a parent stood easy and sure before them.

And so she trusted.

"Always," she finally said. For such was true – would always be true.

Hesitantly, she coaxed her mount forward, the roan animal protesting mightily the closer to the edge they came. She kept her seat steady, her hands upon the reigns firm – trying to impart that _yes, we are going over the edge_ , and _no, I shall not let you fall_ all at once.

Hófvarpnir threw her head in distaste, her nickers matching the furious tattoo of Sif's heart against her chest. Still, she moved forward.

The edge.

One last step, and -

Sif waited for the sensation of falling. Tight she held to her seat to as if to make up for gravity's inevitable hold upon them. But their fall never came. The taut cast of her body loosened ever so slightly when the next fall of her mare's hooves fell not into empty space, but upon solid ground.

She blinked, and instead of the fearsome glory of the universe ever expanding, there was the white and silver tones of great Niflheimr; mist-realm and Hel-home.

They had made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Draugr** : Whose name means 'again-walker', these were the spirits who haunted the graves of dead Vikings. These wraiths were jealous, greedy beings who coveted wealth and the splendor of the living. Only Volstagg would have them camp on a burial site, and not know it. ;)
> 
>  **Lyfja Codex** : 'Lyfja' simply means healing. In the _Fjölsvinnsmál_ , Eir was one of the maidens who attended the Hill of Healing – _Lyfjaberg_ , and performed her arts there.


	9. through your dreams, and mine

The living approached the mist-realm.

In the dead waters of the Gnipahellir, deep and still, the woman whom mortal man once called Mara raised her head. Mara was formless; timeless, holding no soul save that which she gathered from the terror of mortal dreams. A hazy light illuminated her in the icy depths, the succor of millions making her facade of a face gleam golden in the flickering shadows of her waters.

From her frozen post, she could feel such a flame coming into Niflheimr.

Upon feeling the warmth of the travelers, she breathed in deep. She knew the shape and the feel of the living souls who came towards her. Such a heat they possessed, such a warmth . . . She had taken from these dreams before, she realized. In the far off pools she kept upon the Mórrigan's moon. She had drank of these dreams; had made their visions in the shape that the warring one called Anann had bid her to, paying of her own warmth to do so. And how those dreamers had sustained her, even with only so small a sip . . .

Such a warmth carried these two children of the flames, Mara so knew.

Perhaps, she reflected, after absorbing them whole, she herself would no longer feel eternally cold.

 

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Through her centuries of warring by the side of the sons of Odin, Sif had thought that she had acclimated herself to every extreme condition there was to know. She had warred on the barren sands of Álfheimr, and had joined in assaults with her comrades deep in the sweltering rainforests of Svartálfaheimr. She had crossed blades on the frozen wastelands of Jötunnheimr, and thought to know what cold truly was while there.

Niflheimr was unlike anything she had ever faced before.

The land of mist and snow was a blinding world of silver and blue – so very different from the barren black and indigo tones of the Jötunn world. Just past where the bridge let them down, there was nothing to see except the ground – which instead of being one solid plane, was all barren and jagged rock. Deep clefts spider webbed across the land, tiny ravines that dipped down unseen into the heart of the world. The rough geometrical shapes formed by the rifts were all differing heights – some requiring that they leap up and then climb back out again, just to travel in a straight path.

Eventually, they came to the Iron Wood, and instantly it became apparent why the land was named so. From the deep ravines in the ground, tall and towering trees grew – but their bark was unlike anything Sif had seen before. The tones of them were silver; dark and metallic like the steel of her blade. There were grooves in the organic stems quite like the patterns and whorls made by bark, but these seemed almost artificial in their brilliance. The trees had long and spidery limbs, barren of foliage but for near the crowns of the boughs, where sparse leaves flickered like flakes of silver, pounded out by a master smith. Snow coated the trees in elegant, white lines, giving the land a frozen, delicate appearance.

Where the trees grew thicker, there were mountains in the distance – the barriers of the realm of Helgafjel – where the dread Lady Hel sent the souls who deserved rest and peace in the Afterlife, but not the reveling of warriors so provided by the hallowed Halls of Valhalla. The land of the peaceful dead was a vague glow on the other side of the mountains – a tired gold that decorated the silver sky like a setting sun. The light failed to move as they traveled, there was no celestial turn from east to west and back again in the realm where time had been begotten.

The mountains were hollow things, Frigg's map so said, cobbled and honeycombed with caverns and caves – the Gnipa caverns. The map spoke of a dozen so paths through the hollow halls, but they strayed away from such paths – for there they would have to face Mara, who rested her shadowed pools in the safe haven that the mountains provided. All of nature was balance, and where there were dreams, there was also terror, and Mara served as the black void where all terror did so go, unless it overwhelmed at night until mortal souls could take no more.

Sif did not question Thor's decision to keep to the open, she simply followed on the path he set, few words needed between them as they covered as much distance as quickly as they could. Centuries of such travels had made their routine second nature to them, and rather than waste her energy on words, she spent her time concentrating on leading Hófvarpnir as quickly as she could over the difficult terrain.

It was cold, and that much was a gross understatement. The chill in the air around them was an unholy cold which pulled at the points which were left still uncovered – her brow and the skin between her eyes. She was flame blooded and blessed, and the world of ice knew so as its icy fingers caressed about her. The cold of the realm tugged against the fire that fueled her soul. She could feel that flame shrink in the hold of the land, so far from anything she had ever known before.

And then it started to snow.

The blizzard was like no storm Sif had ever traveled through. The further into Niflheimr they traveled, the more the wind picked up. The gales drove the snow like daggers, creating sharp pinging noises - a demonic melody which played against her armor. The wind howled, moaning a ancient song that spoke of despair and hunger. The snow tunneled before them, making billowing clouds of silver and icy blue that shifted like rain the rain did about reeds between the trees of the Ironwood. It was hard to breathe with such a wind, and her breath came short and halting in her lungs.

The cold deepened, pulling at the spark of her soul.

They had not even traveled twenty rôsts when the storm increased in its intensity. Thor dismounted to lead his stallion on foot, and Sif followed suit. He was a smear of red and gold in the storm before her, dancing in and out of her vision like lightning in the storm clouds.

Sif did her best to keep pace. Against her back, her shield had warmed like it was aflame, and she drew the incessant metal. When she held it in her hand, the enchanted weapon gleamed bright – golden like the sun, a beacon of light in the storm. The shield was charmed for the defense of her – and here in the white wastes of Niflheimr, it was an ember fortifying the heat of her. Seeing so, Thor moved aside, letting her take point through the swirling maw of snow.

The flame at the core of her flickered, but no longer did she feel it set to blow out.

Another dozen rôsts passed, made slow by the demon of a storm they traveled through. She could feel the ice collect on the soles of her boots, on the plates of her armor. Her teeth chattered, the fur at the rim of her hood was white, caked over where the snow had melted from the heat of her, only to freeze back over once again. Her glaive would stick in its scabbard if she tried to draw it.

The going was slow, and she fought to keep her annoyance down in the deep of her, lest it bubbled over through the pores of her skin. Eir's spells would not hold Loki in stasis forever, and already the path to Niflheimr had taken so long . . .

Her fingers tightened over her shield. The metal pulsed, as if sensing the conflict within her.

Ahead of them, the entrances to the cavern yawned, swimming in and out of sight, and Sif bit her lip at the temptation they presented.

“Thor, the horses cannot take much more of this!” she hollered over the yawn of the wind. The gales caught her words, and threw them back through the air to Thor.

His eyes, when she glanced over her shoulder to see so, were very blue – glowing in the light of the storm. Above them, the mountains were silent sentinels in the mists. The trees were stony guardians, threatening.

“To the Gnipa caverns, then,” called he to her, and she felt the weight in the decision. A new cold pulled at her bones, settling in the very marrow of her, and Sif tucked her shield in closer to it – the heat of the steel ever the scent of spring storms and magic and Loki. She breathed in deep, and let the memories of it calm the worry in her.

It was slow going to the caverns – the dips in the landscape were severe, and the horses were tired and frozen to the core. Thor had taken to casting Mjölnir before them both – leveling the landscape and lightening the way before them. The iron trees bended to the violence of the blows, but retained their shape as soon as they past – for such was the mysticism of Niflheimr.

As soon as they passed through the barrier of the caverns, Sif sucked in a deep breath. The air was still cold, but it was not a hardship to breathe within the cave's confines. Her lungs filled, and ached with the memory of the storm beyond. She shook, freeing the snow from her cloak and wishing once more that they had Loki with them so that he could aid in the most superficial of ways.

They made some way into the tunnel before coming to a stop. Her shield cast an eerie golden light on their surroundings, where stalagmites and stalactites stood both tall and ancient, forming both ceiling and floor of the cavern. The formations of them were small so close to the openings of the caves, but she would wager that their shapes grew even more severe and uncanny as the tunnels continued on.

Everywhere they looked, there were vast pools of water on the floor of the caverns – much like there had been within the Silver Forests upon the Mórrigan's moon. Mist rose from the pools, heightening the eerie feeling of the cave closing in upon them.

Carefully, Thor's eyes on her all the while, Sif walked to the edge of one of the larger pools, and peered down. Unlike the pools they had faced before, she could see her reflection in these waters. They pulled not at her soul when she looked through their depths to see their very bottoms. The spirit of Mara was not yet upon them.

When her shield pulsed – urging her to act, she raised a brow, and placed her shield down into the water. The water hissed as the partially sentient metal met it – instantly warming the waters until stream billowed rather than mist. The water took on the light of her shield, illuminating the cavern around them better than any fire or torch every would have been able to. The air warmed as well, and she and Thor traded a glance, glad that the magic gave them a moment to defrost. An unspoken agreement past, and she moved to set about unsaddling the horses and washing them down with the enchanted water – which would stay warm until it dried. Slowly, Sif felt the warmth returning to her limbs.

“How much further until we reach the Hel-gate?” asked Sif once her task was completed, for she was anxious to reach Hel's halls so that they may barter with the Queen for the Underwater.

Thor frowned, his brow troubled; he did not know of his brother's state from Sif's dreams, and if possible, his worry was even greater from the unknown. “I cannot say, my lady,” he answered her. “Time moves different here. It feels as if hours have passed, but I cannot say if we have spent minutes or months here.”

Sif's brow furrowed. “I do feel a headache approaching,” she lamented as she tried to wrap her mind around the concept.

Thor's smile was rueful. “There is a reason that my brother normally takes the maps.”

Sif turned her lips up wryly. “Then it is even more imperative that we restore him to full working order.”

Thor's laugh was quick and short, and Sif warmed even further at it. He had a face made for smiles and laughter, she thought, and the heavy gravity of the days passed had not suited him. He sighed as he sat down next to the enchanted pool, his features sharp planes of gold and shadow from the light her shield cast.

“I do not believe it wise to try to navigate the Iron Wood any further,” he finally said. “The storms will only worsen the further towards the heart of Niflheimr we approach, and we don't have the time to waste should we lose ourselves while upon that way.”

Sif had feared as such. The storms were violent, and of an order that the Thunderer could not control. She bit her lip, and nodded. “I so agree.”

“The Gnipa caverns,” Thor said carefully. “We can make our way through the tunnels – the map speaks of several ways to reach Hel's Hall through the Helgfell mountains.”

“And the Mara?” Sif voiced the concern they both held.

“We have faced them once before,” Thor rolled his shoulders. “We shall do so again.”

Her jaw set. “Indeed.” That, at least, was a promise.

With the heat returning to her, she could feel her body turning weary; at last failing her as she felt the sharp talons of exhaustion prick against her skin. They had rode hard for nine days and nine nights, and only one of those nights, past that first, had they partook in rest. She paced restlessly before the lit pool, wishing for the stillness of those dreams once more.

Thor saw her, and proved that he knew her better than she herself did at times. He took the saddles and the furs, and took to making a camp to suit them for the next few hours. He brought out the dried rations they had, and sat first at the edge of the water. Sif eyed him for a long moment before finally sitting next to him. Smiling, Thor handed her her portion of the dried meat, and Sif rolled her eyes at the earnest expression upon his face.

Silence stretched between them, and from beyond they could hear a dull echo of the storms. The song echoed between the rock formations that made the caverns; their graceful and looping designs catching the wind and turning it into a dull and mournful song. The air was silvered blue around them, even with the golden light that danced from Sif's shield. This was a land where magic lingered in the very air, and she shivered at the feel of it against her skin.

“The realm is unlike any other we have been to,” said Sif, her voice soft, lost to the enchanted feel of the world.

“It is unique, as all are,” Thor shrugged.

“The air reminds me of Álfheimr,” Sif remarked, her voice fond with memory. “The woods sing there. I can hear that song here a hundred times more so, even through the storm.”

“Magic and mysticism,” Thor waved a hand dismissively. “That is all.”

“It is a pity that we travel without Loki,” said Sif. “He would have been fascinated by this realm.”

“Indeed,” Thor agreed. “The monsters here are more to his ability to slay.” There was not quite a compliment in the words, but there was no slight, so Sif let the words pass as she sipped at her ale. The golden liquid tasted of home, and warmed her even more still.

“Do you remember the tale of creation?” asked Sif. The enchanted waters before them were no bard's fire, but the magic had lit something ancient in her veins, and she felt the verses ache to slip from her tongue.

“I believe that I slept through Master Eldgrim's lectures that day,” Thor admitted ruefully. “Only bits and pieces stuck with me.”

Sif rolled her eyes, and Thor held his arms up in defence. “I know my histories for the lands I must soon rule. The mystical tales, I left to Loki to memorize. I have no need of them, and he shall be adviser at my side whenever there are gaps in my knowledge.” Always would it to be so to Thor, and his smile was wide at the thought.

And so she leaned forward, knowing that her shadow would be cast long and full behind her.

“In the time before time,” Sif started her tale, “there existed the nothingness of the yawning void. Ginnungagap was the name of the universe before time started to turn, and like everything in existance, she held within herself two poles. The northern part of the void was all freezing wastes and icy rain, called Niflheimr; and the southern part of the void, which was made of ash and flame, was called Múspellsheimr. Now, where these two extremes met, there was a seed, and this seed was great Yggdrasil herself. She took root in the Ginnungagap, and started to grow, feeding on the two extremes that resided there.

“Now, Yggdrasil became aware that she was barren and naked as her bows started to strech through the cosmos. And so, she began to create. From the ice and cold of Niflheimr, she pulled out magic and the power over the elements of creation. First, she carved out her strong trunk and thick branches, and created beings tall and strong enough to carry her heavy burden. She named the father of the ice giants Ymir, and on his back she created Jötunnheimr. Next, to stand as her her spidery arms and fingers, she created Álfheimr, and begot to elves the seiðr of nature and all her ways. The Ljósálfar, which are the light elves, and the Dökkálfar, which are the dark elves; are all either born of wood or water or air, and they carry the elemental magic within their veins.

“Now, at the same time, from Múspellsheimr she pulled the warm ether to create Svartálfaheimr. To this realm she gave the dwarves the power over the forges in their deep mountains. It is to them she begot the power over magical objects, for creation is balance, always balance. Once magic was created, and the control over magical items was begotted, she decided to create her eyes – her guardians and eternal warriors. And so, she plucked from the heavens the brightest falling star to create Asgard, which she placed upon her highest bough. The Aesir, and their brother people the Vanir, were created to protect and defend all that Yggdrasil held scared. This is why the Aesir are unparalleled with steel and battle, for it is this we were carved and called forth from the void.

“But then, mother Yggdrasil realized that she did not have a heart. But there was not enough in either the land of fire, nor the land of ice to create another realm. So, she drew from the land of fire, and the land of ice to create her last gift. Midgard, she named the land of mankind, which she placed in the middle of her great mass. This is why mortal kind have such a capacity for good and evil, for it is of ice and fire they were created.

“The ninth realm did not come until human kind started to turn upon each other, and brought Death into the world. Helheimr was carved into the frozen heart of Niflheimr, and the realm of Death was given to Lady Hel, the daughter of the man only known as Chaos. She was pulled from the loom of Time to reside from beginning to end first and then once again. It is to her we now travel for the waters left flowing from the time of creation.”

Her tale ebbed off, lost to the musical cadence of magic in the air. She was still for a minute, tilting her canteen back and forth so that the liquid sloshed around within. Thor was silent too, his brow furrowed as he let her words sink in.

“You tell the tale as my brother would,” Thor finally said, his voice soft.

“The words are his very own,” Sif whispered, picking at the straps of her armor. She had joined Thor in absentmindedness during Master Eldgrim's lectures, and the last night she had dreamed, Loki had whispered the myth into her ear as she had faded off to sleep. She could hear his voice, warm and liquid as she spoke. Always would it echo so with her, even if he were to falter and never again would it be to her ears to hear him speak.

Her hands tightened, making a fist.

Thor nodded, the feeling upon his brow making it heavy. He breathed in deep.

Sif forced her fingers to relax. She exhaled.

“Well then,” Thor declared with a false levity, moving on from the tale and its weight. “We shall rest here for a few candlemark's time, and then navigate the tunnels in the morning.”

Sif frowned. “Would that be wise?” she asked, thinking of time in a way that was usually far from her and her immortal kind.

“You have not slept in three nights time,” said Thor. “I'd rather you take your slumber here before we make it further into Mara's realm.”

Her frown deepened. “And yet . . .” she could think of no logical way to give a voice to her fears, she only held a nameless dread upon her tongue. Loki would know how to voice her thoughts so, but he was not there with her, and so Sif's words were her own.

“Would you rather take rest in Hel Queen's Hall?” Thor asked then.

Her face scrunched – better to face the dream-thief than the Queen of the dead. “I see your wisdom,” her voice teased.

Thor puffed up at her words. “I can be wise at times,” he said proudly.

“Ever so often,” gave she, smiling with her teasing.

She stood for a moment, spreading out the furs she had been resting on. When she laid down, using her saddle as a pillow and facing away from the light of the pool they had enchanted, she said, “Thor, if I dream . . .” her voice faded, unsure of how she was to phrase her request.

“I shall wake you,” he vowed, knowing her fear without her having to say so.

She nodded her head, the movement sharp. “Thank-you, my friend.”

Thor smiled, the motion crooked upon his lips. “It is only dreams you fear, Sif.”

“Only dreams,” she echoed hollowly.

She laid her head back upon the saddle, and drew the furs up around her. She inhaled deep; exhaled slow.

Only dreams, she reminded herself.

Only dreams . . .

 

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And Sif dreamed.

 

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Winter had come to Asgard, and it had lingered.

The winter had been unlike anything that Goðheimr had experienced before. The cold was cutting, and the snow had failed to cease. The thick clouds from the storm had obscured both sun and moon, making Sól work furiously to light the world below them through the great mists that came to cover the eternal realm.

Sif pulled her furred hood tighter about her face, and moved to brush the snow from her eyelashes once again.

The charms set by the Álfar mages had failed to keep the snow form heaping up on the various bridges and causeways that crisscrossed the great city. Ice blanketed everything, and few were those who came out of doors unless it was absolutely needed. For three turns when the summer season should have been upon them, winter lingered instead, and there were none in the realms who could so explain the phenomenon. None but the Norns. None but those who so held the whisper of prophesy within them.

There were many families from the outlying lands of Asgard who had made their way to the capitol thanks to the onset of the Fimbulvetr – the Great Winter which had assulted the height of Yggdrasil's branches and refused to let go. Sif stood with the first prince at the entrance of the great halls that had been erected to deal with the refugees. She held a quill and parchment within her hand, tallying the families who made their way into the halls before her. Each face who passed them was weary and wane, and she fought a frown over the fear and unease that had slipped into the Aesir like a murky poison.

“That is another five dozen, just in the first candlemark,” said Sif to her soverign.

Thor, whose responsibilities as lord and ruler had trippled even though he technically had yet to hold the crown, looked just as tired as the refugees who passed their way – though he kept up a good face for the people. He had been long with his father in the halls of Valhalla over the past several fornights, preparing the ranks of the Einherjar and the Valkyrie for the fight they could all feel building in their very bones. Frigg had been tireless at her loom, and the Norn resolute of their vision, and the few who knew of the approaching Twilight wore armor at all times, ears attuned for the sound of Heimdall's horn in the distance. Her brother, who peered into the depths of Múspellsheimr and Niflheimr both, watched as the forces that built against them gathered; and his horn was poised to blow.

And yet, until that day came, all they could do was wait. And prepare.

“That makes near to twelve thousand in total,” said Thor, his voice troubled. He had one hand stroking his chin where he had let his beard grow in since the Fimbulvetr's onset in a restless way. His clear eyes were clouded. “And that is just of Asgard's people. The number is doubled for the Vanir. Not as much so for the Álfar and Svartálfar – both of whom have given more of warriors than of refugees.”

Sif shook her head, making another scratch of her quill. When another family passed, the father stopped and clasped Thor on the arm – conveying his graditude for the measures that had been taken to aid them. There were three little ones with the young farmer couple, and Thor stepped away from the father in order to toss the smallest one into the air. The fair haired little girl gave a laugh, and those closest to the enterance smiled upon hearing the sound – for too rare was its cadence as of late.

Thor watched the child as she went forward with her parents, his eyes heavy. Sif stepped forward in order to place a hand on her friend's shoulder, knowing of the weight that resided there. “We will get them through this,” she said, her voice low and intense with a warrior's vow.

“Of course,” Thor said, shaking away his heavy mood from his eyes. He straightened, and Sif let her hand drop away. “The Valkyrie formed their ranks today,” he finally said. “The Einherjar are ready to march as well.”

Sif snorted, her opinion of the warriors who had spent so many centuries drinking and reveling in Valhalla's halls low enough. She did not know how they would face up against the ranks that would be awakened from Hel's realm.

“The sun will not shine past this day,” Thor finally said. “We are trying to keep the people calm through the Twilight. They will stay inside the warded halls whilst we do battle.”

Sif nodded, her shield warming at her back in readiness. As always, the warmth came with its own weight.

“And Heimdall cut off the way?” asked she.

They had broken the byway of the cosmos to keep the travelers from Midgard away from the final battle. Thor's mortal wife, and his human rank of comrades had been insistant in joining Asgard in the final fight, but Thor would not risk them so. The mortal Lady carried his son, and the human warriors had no idea what they would so face from the depths of the realms of creation. Yggdrasil moaned into the wind, her pain felt in the spark of every one of her children.

“Yes, Heimdall cut off the way,” said Thor, his voice hollow.

Sif breathed in deep. “You will be returned to her, my friend.”

Thor nodded, the movement sharp. “Perhaps.”

Perhaps not. The prophesies wove such a bleak tale, but they had triumphed against such odds before. She opened her mouth to say so when above them, the sky shuddered.

There was a low, awful cry that flickered with the horizon and grew. The sound of it swelled like a wave, rolling in upon itself and flaring in a bright and brilliant cressendo. Sif felt her bones rattle, her lungs aching as Yggdrasil screamed into her very soul. She pitched forward, Thor catching her as they both were forced to their knees from the force of the onslaught.

Above them, the sun wavered.

The sound of the breaking cosmos pitched – like a wolve's song, but deeply set. Evilly so. Malliciousness climbed up and down the world tree's boughs, and ill intent sank its claws in deep into the bark of the ash until it found Yggdrasil's eternal ichor. The song rose; broke.

And then the stars went out.

Darkness descended like a curtain over Goðheimr, until there was nothing but the most unatural night around them all. Sif stiffened, remembered a vision she had experienced in what seemed like a life time ago. Her mouth filled with the taste of copper at the memory, and she pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth, finding the taste of blood there as well.

“Thor?” she called, her heart in her throat, even though she had vowed that it would not be so. She had thought to hold her head high when the Twilight came, and bare her teeth to her people's end.

She searched for his hand, and felt it as a vice about her wrist when he found her in the eternal shadow. She choked upon it, the blackness and the winter coating her lungs.

From the horizon beyond, Heimdall's horn blew.

When Thor's voice came, it was a weak shadow of the thunder it normally was.

“And so it begins.”

 

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And Thor stood guard.

 

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In the silence that descended when Sif gave way to sleep, Thor stayed awake.

His mighty limbs were restless, and so he took to pacing. He walking up and down the length of the glowing pool, needing movement, but unsure of what to do with himself. Niflheimr had lit an odd chill in his veins – fighting with the spark of his very soul, and he kept moving as if to warm himself. The horses nickered every time he passed close to them, as if anxious to quell his anxiety.

Every so often, he glanced to Sif's face, checking for any sign of a dream. He could see none, save for a faint furrow that clung to her brow. He let her be, knowing how deeply his brother's loss had struck at her. For all of the ire that the shield-maiden bore for the Trickster, he knew that she was as close with Loki as he himself was. Their's was a relationship that Thor had tried to understand many a time before throughout the years, before giving up on the thought. Sometimes, he was almost completely certain that his brother fancied the headstrong woman, and he wished by his father's ravens that the two would end their antagonistic dance and do something about the feelings they clearly held. But, that would be the same as asking the mighty tides to flow away from their rush to meet the shore.

He shook his head at his thoughts, before coming to a stop. Around him, the elemental music in the air had risen. The caves hummed with a song that he could not understand. The melody had quickened as time passed by him. The waters of the pools started to bubble and froth in a way that was not from Sif's shield.

Something approached.

Setting his jaw, Thor dipped his hand into the pool to retrieve Sif's shield. He placed the enchanted metal down by his slumbering friend, knowing that his brother's spells would protect her while Thor faced down whatever foe the cavern would choose to send to him.

The melody around him quickened, turning low and supple, the melody of it taking on a sensuous edge. A siren's song filled the air as mist rose from the pools.

Thor set his jaw, and held Mjölnir so that the hammer cast a blue light about his surroundings. Thunder rattled in his veins, and his voice was laced with static when he demanded, “Whosoever thou are, show yourself.”

The command drew a bubble like laughter from the air, the sound akin to water trickling over small stones. He stiffened. “You will show yourself now,” he commanded once more. “It is the son of Odin who demands it so.”

“We answer not to thee, Odinson,” the voice in his ears was like no voice he had ever heard before. It was a hundred voices who spoke in an echo – as if the entity he faced had no voice save for the ones it had stolen from others. “For thou hast no authority in the realm of mist and ice.”

“My father's jurisdiction spreads to all nine realms,” Thor declared arrogantly. “And I will have you comply.”

“Thou speaks boldly, flame-born,” the voice echoed. A few paces from them, the waters in the pools bubbled fiercely, the mist taking on shape and form. “Very well, child, we shall humor thee.”

Thor tensed, Mjölnir held tight within his hands. The blue light from the hammer cast an eerie glow as the mists consolidated, taking the form of a woman – a dozen such woman with full and graceful bodies. Their forms were voluptuous, made of light and water, ever shifting and fluctuating before his eyes. The shapes Mara took were bare, with rippling waves that mimicked the fall of hair. Bright white lights formed sightless eyes, intent upon his own. Their legs faded into a great swell of foam and brilliant water below her knees - the bodies she chose to show him were ever shifting, constantly remorphing upon themselves.

“Dost thou approve of what thine eyes see?”

“Your form means nothing to me,” Thor declared. “State your purpose within these caverns.”

Laughter sounded, low and tingling as the waters of her form pulsed. “These caverns all around are mine own, and thou would ask for my purpose? Foolish flame-child, slumbering so by Mara's pools. Dost thou not know of the temptation thy warmth provides me?”

“You are Mara, then?” Thor bid the specter to answer.

“You speak true,” the various women in the water merged into one form, towering over Thor.

“Dream-thief,” Thor spoke coldly, “you will leave us now. We have an urgent matter that draws us to to gates of Hel's, and we wish to pass through your domain in peace.”

The spirit cocked its head, its mass of hair a brilliant and blue halo about her head – shifting as if she were under water rather than above. “Thou marches so for the blood of Loki Odinson?” the spirit said thoughtfully. “Thy mission boils in thy veins. The warmth of thee . . . feeding off of thy warm dreams could fan the flame of mine own soul for all of eternity.”

Thor held Mjölnir up. “And that is something that I cannot give.”

“The choice does not belong to thee,” the form of Mara grew huge, filling the cavern. The surf bubbled all around her, foaming and salty on the air. “Already she gives so much,” Mara pointed a blue finger to the slumbering Sif, safe under her shield. “She dreams, and her dreams feed mine own soul.” Indeed, the form of Mara pulsed, brilliant and bright, even as the color drained from Sif's face.

Thor felt his blood go cold, remembering the last time Sif had suffered Mara's visions. Not again.

“You will release her from you hold,” Thor declared.

Mara split once more into a dozen forms, and her voice when she spoke echoed awfully – within the tones, Thor heard children, old men and women, the pleasing tones of a wife, and the gruff tones of a father warrior. All dreamed. All of their terror at night, Mara had caught and captured as her own. “Thou cannot stop me. Thy rage furthers thy warmth, and now I shall feast.”

“We shall see,” Thor said, tossing Mjölnir from hand to hand before lifting the enchanted weapon to the heavens far above them.

Lightning filled the cavern, and Mara laughed.

 

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The Thunderer roared.

 

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And Sif continued to dream.

 

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Away from the ever winter, there was a dark and clouded place.

Sif traveled over the land as if she had wings, scanning quick and nimble as if she gazed through eyes not her own. A massive figure with short downturned horns bellowed deep within the forges of Múspellsheimr. Surtr the Fiery one was a smoldering beast, a giant cut from the very heart of the flames in the fire-world's belly. He hollered to the sky as the great land erupted volcanic ash, and rained down embers and coal.

She flew through the smoke until she reached the very cosmos itself. She pierced through time and space, traveling in a dizzying whirl over great Yggdrasil's starry roots until she reached the second world of creation. The world of ice and snow flew by her in flashes of silver and grey until she reached the river Gjöll and the banks of hellish Náströnd itself.

Sif was dropped unceremoniously from her flight, down upon the black as soot shores. She screwed her eyes closed, expecting to strike the rock as a blow, but instead her landing was soft. She was almost formless, a shadow as she took in her surroundings with tactical eyes.

The land awaiting the evil dead was a place of black rock, the tops of which were webbed over by glittering roots, fine and white, like hair that spider-webbed over anything and everything all around her. Above her, massive wooden claws – roots which were big enough to top a world - formed a cage, curving down and around until it was as if she stood in the belly of a great beast and stared up at its ribs, picked clean by carrion crows. Bones littered the ground, some fresh and some ancient, and their rotting smell was masked only by the scent of sulfur and smoke upon the air. A thick black mire clung to her boots beneath her, sucking upon her every step.

A roaring sound rose and settled not only in her ears, but within her heart with the sound's rage and pain. She winced upon hearing it, her hand falling to where her glaive would be out of reflex. But she was bare of steel. She had not even her shield at her back. She felt naked in that moment as the realization set in, oddly defenseless without those items she held dearest to her.

Still she squared her jaw, and dared to look past the black and porous rocks that concealed her.

Right beyond her shadowed hiding place, there was a dragon – a figure from her people's nightmares and darkest tales. She had faced wyrms before – those dragons who wished her harm, and those who wished her well; but this one was different than all. This one was Níðhöggr, incarnated evil, the black soul who was imprisoned by Yggdrasil's very roots. Sif felt her heart seize once she realized what exactly the rib like formations were upon her, and felt a prayer falling from her lips in answer to her surroundings.

Níðhöggr was a massive wyrm, filling his nest until there was nowhere else to turn to – nowhere else to hide. His glittering eyes were red and mad from the centuries of his imprisonment, and he snorted and clawed at the ground before him in response to the figure who dared to address him. A man whose back was to Sif – a man who wore the black of night like a second skin, with tall golden horns sweeping back from his brow . . .

She felt her breath catch in her throat when she recognized the figure from her Mara inspired vision upon the Mórrigan's moon. The man who was to be Asgard's destroyer stood before the dragon, beseeching it . . . reasoning with it. Sif felt her blood, sluggish in her veins, spike when she realized just what she was witnessing.

“Already the Twilight begins!” the horned figure hollered up to the wyrm. “The great winter has ran its course, and the very sun and moon have been devoured. The forces of Jötunnheimr are set to march on my command. Alongside the denizens of Hel Queen's realm, we meet Odin and his sacred army from Valhalla this very eve! Rise up with me, Níðhöggr, just as your kindred Surtr has agreed to do. Let us end the haughty and hypocritical reign of Odin, and let a new life grow upon the morning!”

Sif held her breath through the speech, wondering at the power of such a voice. Such a warm voice, but so hoarse and corroded, as if it had known more of screaming than of words kindly spoken in his life. She could not see his face, but she could see his hands, long and white – artists hands, that were crisscrossed with long scars, as if he had been bound by something enchanted, and had thrashed mightily against it. A faint tremor in her soul wondered at the possibility of such a man holding a true reason to hate Odin Allfather, and she brushed it away. Odin was her king and sovereign, a wise man and kind father to her two dearest friends, and he did not deserve her treason, even in the farthest corners of her mind.

At long last, the dragon bowed, kneeling down on one knee as it inclined its massive head before the proud figure that would be her people's doom. “Mine own heart shall be aligned with thee.”

“Then I accept your servitude,” the horned man said. “Now, burn the roots from about yourself, and rise against Yggdrasil eternal!”

The dragon laughed, and from his nose spewed flames – bright and violent, and so hot that Sif felt herself burning within her armor.

Her heart pounding furiously, she darted down the side of the riverbank, hoping that she was small enough to escape the dragon's notice as she sought to escape the flames. Black sludge clung to her boots, slowing her as her fingers scrambled for purchase upon the rock mass. The dragon snorted, and she could smell sulfur and brimstone fill the air. Flames licked over the water, and Sif darted her gaze about her surroundings, looking for a way to escape and report what she had seen.

And then strong hands locked about her shoulders, staying her. “Sif!” the hissed syllable was loud in her ears.

She started, before turning boneless when she saw that it was Loki who so had her in his hold. Loki – _her_ Loki with his pallid skin alight by Eir's spells, and eyes so verdant under the sunken shadow which they resided in. His hands were cold, she could feel them as anchors against the heat and chaos of the flames all around her.

“The dragon,” her voice hiccuped in her throat, “he strikes so against Yggdrasil. Against Asgard -”

He held a finger to her lips, silencing her. His eyes were fever wild. “Hush, Sif, it is just a dream you see.”

A dream? Her mind reeled around the concept. How could she dream so, with the dragon's laughter in her ears, and the scent of death all around her? And oh, but _twice_ so had she dreamed of the horned man who would bring destruction and all ends to Asgard eternal.

“A dream,” the whisper trembled upon her tongue as she repeated after him.

“Mara's pools,” Loki's voice was swift, forcing her to remember. “Thor battles the dream-thief, and you cannot assist him if you give into Mara's false visions. Awaken! Sif, you must _wake up_.”

Beyond them, the dragon's roars were terrible. The roots all around her, like the belly of a great beast, shuddered and groaned as their deep setting was ripped from the base of the cosmos. She screwed her eyes shut. Forced them to open. “But how?” asked she, hating the desperation in her voice.

Loki shook his head, his hair, curling and disheveled, flew about him as he did so. “I cannot awaken you. _You_ must do so. Thor cannot fight the dream-catcher without you. You must awaken _now_ , or you never will again. Your nightmare will be eternal.”

“I grasp the gravity of the situation,” Sif so snapped, her eyes fierce as the flames all around them threatened to grow. “But how does one awaken, when one already feels awake?” She tried to will consciousness into her mind, tried to feel her body slipping from this false vision into one real, but nothing happened.

Around them, the flames threatened to grow.

The dragon hollered, and Sif felt the all smothering heat reach her hiding place.

“Loki?” she asked, turning as if to reach out to him.

He reached for her hand, his eyes wild, and -

 

.  
.

\- Sif awakened.

She blinked furiously against the sleep which still clung to her, making her eyes heavy, held down by what felt like so many weights. Her body worked against her; she could not sit up, could not move. Her will was not her own as her mind tried once more to pull her against unconsciousness. There was a black shadow all about her, a sweet music in her ears bidding her to sleep. Mara's magic was a siren's song in her ears, and Sif fought vehemently against the dream-thief's hold.

She was able to tilt her head the slightest bit, and she found Thor battling a mystical woman, seemingly created of the surf and sand. Mjölnir struck again and again against the watery woman – who split from one form and then into dozens; surrounding Thor, overwhelming Thor. Thor's blows could do naught to touch her, and the brilliance of his storms filled the caverns, louder evem than Mara's tinkling laughter.

Sif tried to turn. She tried to keep her eyes open, to reach for her steel and shield, and assist Thor in his fight when -

 

.  
.

Sif fell back into dreams.

 

.  
.

The Thunderer continued his fight.

 

.  
.

And in the hall of Eir, the healer stood watch with her lady Queen.

Frigg had risen from her vigil by her son's bedside when she saw the way his brow furrowed, even though he slept. Frowning, she held a hand through the enchanted barrier to stroke Loki's forehead soothingly, finding it clammy to the touch. His mouth moved in such small motions, giving life to syllables his warring body could not utter.

Eir's wane face looked troubled as she reached over to touch the prince's pulse. Her fingers lingered, tired and still.

Frigg bit her lip, worry deep within her gaze as she turned to her friend. “Does he dream?” she asked Eir.

“Don't we all, my lady?” Eir so replied, her voice heavy. Ancient and tired as she repeated, “Don't we all . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rôst** : Literally 'a rest'. One of the Viking measurements for distance, which was calculated by how long it took to get from one rest place to the next - which would be a rough mile by our equivalents.
> 
>  **Einherjar** : The dead warriors who have been feasting in Valhalla, who are called upon to fight against Loki's forces during Ragnarök.
> 
>  **Sif's Creation Tale** : Is half mine, and half myth. I leave it to you to decide which was which. ;)
> 
>  **Sif's Shield** : You can find out much more about when reading _'Steel in your Hand'_ , seeing as how it is basically a third character in that tale. In that story, Loki enchanted the shield to protect her, and since he infused it with a bit of his life force, it is her constant link to him.


	10. until the time of twilight

This was the dream that Sif dreamed.

She dreamed that she sat tall and mighty upon her great steed, dressed in full battle attire. The leather clenched about her body was a deep red – the color of blood mixed with wine, left to dry in the sun. The plates of her armor were silver and bronze, holding a light of their own as they glimmered in the absence of sun and stars above. The armor was more intricate than anything Sif had ever worn before; a true symbol of royal favor. Over her hair, which hung down to her saddle in a thick black plait, she wore a gleaming helmet with straight and severe silver plates. The three pronged wings were a general's rank, declaring her second to only Thor himself on the battlefield.

She was breathing in deep and slow, finding her center as she extended the reach of her glaive, readying herself for the fight to come.

“Hold,” was the order upon her lips as she held up an arm to keep the men behind her at bay. She had a dozen contingents at her command – each a dozen times a hundred, all warriors of Asgard. Above her men, ranks of Brünnhilde's golden and white Valkyrie flew, ready to mirror their Aesir brethren below.

Her army stood at attention upon a wide and grassy field which stretched at least a hundred leagues in every direction – _Óskópnir_ , the plain which Odin himself had had specifically prepared for the Twilight centuries before. Further, upon the crest of the low lying hills circling the plain, would be Thor himself, standing battle brilliant and tall next to his lord father. There they were ready to lead the ranks of the Enherjar, the mortal warriors who had been harvested from the battlefields throughout the centuries, and housed within Valhalla, in order to fight this final fight.

Awaiting in the treelines were the Álfar warriors who aided them that day, each an archer and horseman both. Legions of dwarves had sworn their steel as well, and the stout armies of Ivaldi's sons stood next to elf and Vanir, both. Each race stood ready to defend the boughs of Yggdrasil eternal.

Upon the ever dark horizon, a faint glow began to approach. 

It was time then. 

Sif breathed in deep. Beneather her, her steed pranced. At her side, standing as one of her three lieutennants, Fandral looped an easy smile, reminding her so much of times past that it almost hurt to behold. “Just like old times, eh, my lady?”

“Just like old times,” she echoed hollowly, forcing a smile onto her lips.

The glow grew, flickering as a flame over the sea that stood to the one forefront of the great field. It touched the land.

The Twilight had reached Asgard's shores then.

The glow grew, hissing and popping as it broke the waves in the shapes of flames – Surtr and the sons of Múspellsheimr, the children of the forges. Their roar was great and terrible as their flames streaked across both sea and sky like an artist's brush upon a black canvas. The fire grew against the sky, blazing in place of sun and stars, and upon seeing so, Sif could feel Yggdrasil herself moan upon the wind. The great mother was being torn apart, torn assunder from her very roots, and all upon her limbs felt her pain.

Sif felt her brow furrow. But that ended here. They would not fail Yggdrasil. Not after all the eternal mother had done for Asgard and all of creation.

She bared her teeth when the whole of the Worldslayer's army started to rise from the waves. A horde of giants, those of frost and those of fire, followed the horned man who lead the fleet of Hel's own undead from the ever turning waves. The sound of wolve's cries broke onto the air as they touched the shore – rendering the sky in two. The wolves would not be sated after devouring sun and moon. They craved blood now.

And blood they would have.

Beneath her, her steed pranced, snorting through wide nostrils. The sound of steel upon steel reached her ears with its cadence – the sound of an army ready for battle.

Sif raised her glaive.

“For Asgard and Yggdrasil eternal!” she shouted her battle cry, the sound drawn from the deepest parts of her until it matched the cries of the wolves opposite her. The flames roared, frost spread across the ever turning sea.

Behind her, her cry was caught up on thousands of toungs – a sacrifice of lips given to the very heavens, letting the world tree know that she had not been forsaken. Not yet.

Her steel held high, she urged her horse into the melee.

The Battle for Yggdrasil so began.

 

.  
.

The shield-maiden dreamed of war and ash and twilight.

 

.  
.

And the Thunderer fought against the ether of nightmares herself.

 

.  
.

How was it one fought one who held no form?

Every time Thor struck at Mara, his blows were empty. The shaded woman would merely reform, her laughter taunting him with its childlike clarity and easy amusement. His great strength was useless against her, and even worse so was when he turned the power of the storms against her. She was water, and so rain could strike her not. She was cold and nothingness, and so the fierce fire of lightning only made her grow – it fed her insatiable hunger. Thunder did nothing against the mistress of nightmares, for it was a sound she had long since employed her her quest to inspire fear and terror in childhood dreams.

She was an opponent he could not beat.

Not far from him, Sif continued to dream, her face stretched into such a look of pain and terror that Thor felt his heart seize sickly at it. For strong Sif, steel born, to feel so . . . He did not want to imagine her dreams. He did not want to know what could cause her terror so. Over her chest, her shield glinted, but its glow was weak, the spells flickering as they tried to awaken their mistress.

Thor gritted his teeth as a new determination kindled in him, and this time his blows had the all of his rage and his righteous indignation behind them. Mara would not take her all from them.

At least . . . she would not from Sif.

His decision made, Thor ceased his attack, and placed Mjölnir down in the rock before him. The hammer stayed standing – a barrier. A stalemate – for the woman of dreams could touch him not while he was armed so. But he could destroy her not as well. She was past his authority to command.

She saw him, and tilted her head, her sightless eyes glowing. “Shall we continue like so, Odinson? Nigh on until the Twilight itself? Thou can do naught to strike against thineself. Cease thy attacks, and give of thy soul.”

“If,” and Thor considered his words, knowing of the shape and form they would have to take for the deal to have weight, “you release hers.”

Mara blinked, as if surprised to have him acquiesce. “Thou would give of thy warmth in return for the shield-maiden's soul?”

“I shall,” said Thor, and the oath was strong on his tongue. It was his folly that had brought them to Niflheimr, and he trusted Sif to be strong and travel the rest of the way to Hel's halls. She would gather the Underwater without him, and his brother would awaken again. Thor's own soul was a small price to pay. An equal price to pay.

Mara gazed at him, considering. “I accept, son of Odin.”

“Then so be it,” Thor said. He held his hands up before him, as if in surrender. Mjölnir struck the ground with a dull thud as she turned over by her master, useless to her wielder. Her light flickered in the cavern, as if sensing what was about to transpire.

Thor stepped closer to Mara, his hands still held open and bare.

He took a deep breath in, centering himself. It was such a small price to pay, he told himself. Such a small price to pay for what he held dearest to him.

Mara took a step closer to him. Beyond them both, Sif sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to awaken.

Thor fought the urge to close his eyes, hoping that his friend would be hale and whole after freed from Mara's touch. He wished peace for her warring soul in the years to come, and hoped that she would convey to Loki just how sorry he was for his actions. He hoped that she would tell his brother of the lengths he would go to atone for them. It had been such a silly and vain decision on his part, to lead them so here . . . 

He swallowed his words, as he always did, and turned to prove his speech with actions instead.

When he held out his hand to Mara, she looked at him, long and slow.

And then she took his hand.

At her touch, a cold unlike anything Thor had ever felt before traveled through him, and in that moment, he understood Mara's hunger. To be so empty, to be so cold with the nothingness left by the power of creation . . . He felt the flame at the core of him, the fire that had so birthed Asgard and begotten his own soul fan higher. It burned so strong, trying to keep his own warmth blazing on and steady as Mara fed off of him.

Her eyes were such a light before him . . . But still she did not warm.

He could feel the desperation within her, the thirst and longing as she drew him deeper and deeper in, forming her soul with his own.

And so he closed his eyes, and let her take her all.

 

.  
.

Mara laid the Thunderer down to dream.

 

.  
.

Upon the field of battle, Sif blinked.

She frowned as she fought off the Jötunn warrior who stood opposite of her. There was something tingling at the back of her mind – a whisper saying that all was not well. Something was not right. She felt queasy, as if she were looking at the Twilight of her people as if through the eyes of a dream rather than her own thought and vision.

Her hands loosened on her glaive, and she nearly missed a violent blow from her opponent which would have taken off her head if she had not been pushed to the ground by a comrade. She looked up, adrenaline making her heart skip a beat when she realized just who had saved her.

“Loki?!” she exclaimed. The name was thick upon her tongue, as if she had not uttered it in years. The syllables were awkward, holding no welcome – as if she had started to view the name as a curse.

The Sif who longed to war fought with the sense of dreaming she felt. Her mind reeled at the cross of sensation as Loki – skin pale and eyes fever bright - waved a hand. Around her, the battle paused – blows halted mid strike, the waves ceased their song, and the wolves froze with their yawning jaws wide open.

“Sif, you must wake up,” said he, and at the phrase she _remembered_. She remembered Thor and the dream-thief, the Gnipa caves and the quest she had been taking to the mist-realm. She remembered, and her blood stilled. She shook her head, trying to center herself. There was something tugging at her, as if she were breaking free of the vision by a force greater than herself.

“Loki?” she questioned as the sensation grew, dragging her from the vision. The imagined battle around her was breaking, fading to ash and dust as only the verdant glow of Loki's spell held her in place.

“Sif, there is no time to properly explain,” he said quickly. “You dream now, but once you awaken, I shall not be able to assist you. You will be on your own.”

She nodded, understanding. “I can face this,” she insisted. “I can fight this.”

“No, you cannot,” Loki said, waving a hand. “Not with steel. You must remember this,” and he shoved her shield to her, which she had not held during the battle, oddly enough. “Remember that Mara is formed of Niflheimr's magic. She is eternally cold, and she longs for your heat. Do not give it to her. Fire fights fire, just as ice shall destroy ice.”

“Loki, I do not understand,” she said as she felt consciousness pulling at her.

Loki's hands held onto her shoulders, as if he alone could anchor her; ground her. “You will,” said he, raising one hand to brush the hair which had escaped her braid from her face. “You will understand.” The metal of her helmet trapped him from a true caress, and so in a desperate moment, she pushed it back further on her head. It pulled at her hair, but she did not notice its tug as she reached over to pull him to her.

When her lips met his, it was messy and violent, her teeth knocking against his as his nose pressed to the side of hers. The brow of her helmet still struck his forehead, but that did not stop her from pushing closer – sinking her hands into his hair as she would an enemy's, forcing their throats to face her blade. Instead of seeking a blow, she let her teeth bite at his lower lip, staking her claim and finding blood before pulling away.

Such a look in his eyes . . . it struck her more dearly than anything had on the battlefield that day.

Her hands were still in his hair, they caressed now – comforted, promised. This time when he kissed her, it was gentle. Tender. She closed her eyes against it, and tried to pour her all into the simple contact.

“It's time to wake up now,” Loki said against her lips. She could feel his smile as it hooked.

And Sif opened her eyes.

 

.  
.

Around her, blue light cut into the fire of her visions.

Her sight was groggy, coming slowly to her – bursting upon her as the morning sun did upon the horizon, growing steadily warm and gold. She stood before she was completely aware of her surroundings, seeking steel and shield and finding both ready at her fingertips.

And yet, when she blinked, the cavern was empty.

Frowning, she looked both left and right, but saw no sign of Mara or her watery form. Instead, there was only Thor, standing by the edge of the pool, his broad shoulders taut with an energy Sif could not identify. His back was to her, his fists clenched as he stared down into the water.

Not a word came from him as she approached. She walked slowly, letting her foot drag against the stone floor of the cave. It scraped, alerting him to her presence.

“Thor?” she questioned, holding a hand out as if to touch his shoulder.

Sif did not make contact, when, instead of answering her, her friend let out an ear piercing shriek. Her blood ran cold at the sound – for the sounds that made up the scream were not Thor's. It was such an unholy cry, black as if it were torn from a hundred throats. She heard children scream in the sound. Heard women wail, and strong men plead. 

Her skin ran cold, goosebumps instantly appearing as the shape of the scream struck her like a blow. She skidded back from the force of it, her shield held up before her as she shouted, “Thor!”

Finally, he turned to face her. But it was not her friend who stared back at her. Thor's face turned in a blank mask, recognizing her, but his eyes were sightless – glazed over with a complete shade of unnatural blue. Mara, Sif realized, it was _Mara_ who was staring at her from deep within her friend's gaze. Thor was _gone_ , lost somewhere behind Mara's icy hold.

And Thor – _Mara_ approached her.

Sif saw the war in his stride, and lifted her shield higher.

“Thor, can you hear me?” she called, hoping to reach him wherever he was within his own mind.

Laughter dripped from his lips – a mad laughter echoed by a hundred voices, tinkling and clear. And Mara answered her, “Thor hears not, shield-maiden.”

Sif held her glaive before her shield. “You shall return him to me,” she let her voice ring out arrogantly, the war still hot in her veins as she stared down the dream-thief.

Thor smirked, but the shape of it was not one Sif knew. Sif, who knew every gaze Thor could give, was a stranger to this look. It settled as a blow to her mind.

“He gave freely of himself,” Mara declared. “His warmth is mine . . . mine very own. And still it is not enough. Still there is such a void, such an emptiness . . .”

Sif bared her teeth. “You will release him.”

“His soul for thy own, that was the bargain struck,” Mara declared haughtily. “Leave, shield-maiden, before I decide that my vow is not worth the price to keep.”

Sif shook his head. “I would not leave him here. Not with you.”

Mara's grin was ugly on Thor's face. Her eyes shone in place of Thor's – a block of glowing blue, ancient with old magic. “I had hoped that thee would speak so.” Mara raised Thor's hands, and from them ice and elemental seiðr poured. “Come then, child. Come and give of thy soul.”

The battle spilling from her veins, Sif so accepted the challenge.

 

.  
.

And the Thunderer lost himself to dreams.

 

.  
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Thor dreamed of Twilight.

He was kneeling, as if in a bow, upon a high ridge that overlooked a vast valley. The valley was filled with thousands upon thousands of warring souls; made up from every quarter of Yggdrasil's branches, and those from even farther still. The world around him was black – an unnatural black that was severed only from the torches carried by the warriors below. The sea beyond the valley was caught up with an uncanny golden glow, as if the waters were aflame from beneath. The air split with the howls of wolves; with the melody of clashing steel and war cries torn from the deepest of throats.

He straightened, and recognized Óskópnir all about him – the field upon which Ragnarök would be fought. Years ago, when he was little more than a boy, his father had taken him and Loki to this very valley – showing them where they all were to one day stand their ground should the visions of the Nornir come true. That had been the first day that Thor had ever met a Valkyrie – Brünnhilde had been her name, a tall and staggering woman who carried steel and wore armor made from dragon scales in the style of a man. More beautiful than any woman Thor had ever seen, she had still held a bit of the uncanny about her – as if by touching her, the image she presented would have been shattered, and she would turn to ash and smoke. She held the beauty of a storm or a great rolling wave about her – something that could be appreciated from afar, but never approached, never touched. She was a tall woman, standing eye to eye with his lord father, while from her back stretched a pair of brilliant white wings – like those of an eagle, the bend of them reaching three feet above her head, and the long sweep of the lowest feathers trailing on the ground behind her. She had had sharp teeth when she talked, and wickedly bright golden eyes that glinted with a promise that Thor had not understood at the time. She had been war and death and magic and power combined; and even Loki had joined Thor in gaping like a fish in her presence.

Originally, Brünnhilde and her sisters had not been a part of mother Yggdrasil's creation. They had come after – after humanity had discovered Death, and the Nornir had woven their vision of the end. Ragnarök would someday come, Odin told them the tale that day, and the dead warriors harvested and housed by the Valkyrie in the golden halls of Valhalla would be the thing to turn the tide in the final battle.

Now, Thor could see the white wings of the Valkyrie flash in the air above the fighting hordes. But they too fell. He could see the Einherjar – the forces unleashed from Valhalla's womb, but they fell as well. Ice struck, Giants landed their mighty blows, while the deadened forces of Hel mounted their own assault. The aims of the Álfar archers were steady, and the dwarfs were hearty and hale of head and heart – but it looked as if each side took on equal losses. Both bled. Both wept. All suffered.

And in the wind, Yggdrasil moaned her pain. Thor could feel her roots as they were lifted in the very heart of him. His ribs were tight, his lungs thin, flailing, as if they could not gather enough air. In the deep part of him, the spark that he and every one of the Aesir carried flickered.

But the great ash would not be felled without he seeing that he could do his all to see her boughs remain upright. With determination like molten steel in his veins, Thor took Mjölnir from his side. He felt the storms gather easily, sensing his intentions, for already around them were the rumbles of thunder and the roll of lightning. The heavens shook, and Thor smiled at the promise of it – they were in accord, he and they, and blood would spill until the glow in the ocean was exhausted and put to rest.

He lifted the hammer to strike, when, from right beyond, the low cry of a wolf split the air.

Thor stayed his hand.

Above them, the sky shivered, the shifting lights reminding him of the Wylde Hunt as it traveled across Midgard's horizons. Colours billowed in tones of green and violet – like wolves chasing the celestial bodies through the cosmos. Thor could hear the echo of them, but this cry was different. This cry was not from some space born entity, instead, it was uttered from the throat of a giant white wolf who padded across the rocky outcroppings, approaching where the noble ranks of Odin's forces were watching on high.

The wolf was massive, his thick shoulders came up to Thor's waist, putting him almost eye to eye to the Thunderer if they were to stand on equal ground. His paws were massive, thickly padded and sharply clawed, as elegant as one of his brother's throwing blades. As he darted through the melee, the prints he left were equal to the size of any man's. His eyes were yellow and luminous in the twilight – as if he had caught what had been devoured of the moon and placed it within his gaze. His pelt was white – the color that of fresh snow, save for a thick slash of dark brown that started between his eyes and swept back over his head. The tips of his long ears were colored, as well, easy to spy as they twitched back and forth.

Thor watched the wolf as he ran through the ranks of Hel's own, and towards the guard of Odin . . .

The guards in gold leveled their weapons before the massive creature, but they stood no chance. Instead of using his massive paws or strong jaw, the wolf merely dodged them, the magic in his song making the steel flash uselessly past his sides. Odin, great and towering in his battle armor, watched the appearance of the massive hound with his one eye, a rise in his gaze that Thor did not recognize.

When the wolf came before Odin's personal line of generals, the Allfather waved the spears and swords away. Viðarr, Odin's left hand where Thor was his right during the Twilight, bared his teeth to the wolf, refusing to let his weapon rest. 

Odin held his hand before the other man, stilling him without even sparing him his gaze. “I would hear Garmr speak, Viðarr.”

The younger warrior glowered, but fell back a step, his eyes sharp upon the wolf.

The wolf bowed his head, mockingly so, kneeling on his great forepaws until his snowy white muzzle brushed the ground below. “Blessed be, Allfather,” the wolf's voice echoed deep in his throat, a feral and low sound that sounded like the fall of trees in the deep wood; the babbling of mountain springs.

Odin inclined his head. “Garmr Helhound,” he greeted in kind. “You need not wear that skin. I would speak to your face.”

Curious, Thor watched. Steel clashing and men laying their lives down behind him, and yet Thor could not turn his eyes away from his father and the wolf.

The wolf threw his head back, and howled. As the sound reached up to pierce the black heavens, the play of Wylde lights from above seemingly fell to cover the animal before them. The lights danced, the play of seiðr bright and elemental as the white from the wolf rose to cloak him like a spirit. Intrigued, Thor watched, remembering the times when Loki had sat very still before him and allowed his seiðr to pour from him – from his pores and from his eyes and from his very heart – in order to change his shape. This was no different – fur was traded for rough and dark skin, claws for human hands, strong and long, four legs touching the earth for the two of men. The eyes remained the same – deep and golden, staring at Odin from the pretense of a man's face.

“You bring words from your leader,” Odin stated. He did not ask.

“Nay,” responded Garmr, standing straight and tall. “My words have never been for or from the Worldslayer.”

“Then why do you risk your life to come hither to my side?” Odin's voice was a blow, falling. It sparked as an axe upon the cutting block.

“I come, not for the Worldslayer's woes, but for those of the Hel-Queen, whom I have served from the beginning of this time, and the last.” _The last_. It was said with such a blow, and Odin, great and strong, stiffened as if he had been struck – though Thor could see not where it landed.

“And what right to anger does Lady Hel have with me?” Odin questioned.

“Every,” Garmr hissed in a low tone. 

“Ah,” Odin said, his icy eye trailing the Hound from head to toe. His voice was flippant, but Thor could hear the steel beneath it. “I see the Liarsmith has bewitched her, as well as you, with his lies -”

“ - she follows him, not for his own vendetta against you; but her own. In your foolishness, in your eagerness to prevent prophesy, you have hurt that which was innocent. That which should have been kin to you -”

“Her birth,” Odin hissed icily, “her very role beneath the Yggdrasil's roots, was decided by the Nornir. I merely carried out their weaving. For the benefit of all. For the good of Asgard.”

Garmr was not convinced. “For the price of blood which should have been viewed as your own,” he returned.

Finally, a spark of feeling from his lord father. Thundering and strong. “That . . . monstrosity of life is no kindred of mine.”

“In every bond but that of blood, she should have been as your own. If not that of family, then that of an innocent in your realm. A child, needing of your mercy -”

“ - and what mercy could have been afforded to her? You saw what the Nornir wove. The end they spoke of. If so, you also know that there was no better place for Hel than the depths of Niflheimr. She has taken to her duty and her post well – she has settled. Found her place. Found a life to live. To love.”  
Garmr was very still. Thor could see the rise of rage in his eyes – deeply set and ancient. “Too long you have struck against what should not have been touched for the sake of preventing prophesy. In your quest to prevent this end, you have harmed that which should not have been harmed, and through your own hands, prophesy has been fulfilled. Look around you, Allfather!” Garmr exclaimed, waving his hands to encompass the battle beyond them – the turbulent sea, the eternal black of night which so cloaked them all. “Have you prevented the end? Where is your great victory, Allfather? Where is your justification for the lives you have destroyed?”

Odin was silent. The silver of his armor gleamed, even in the thick darkness around them. Ever was his father a fallen star, but for once, the ether of him was close enough to touch. And so Garmr declared: “For the lives of those you have touched with a cruel hand, I do stand before you today, and declare your life as forfeit.”

“You may try to land a blow, Helhound, but you know not what you strike against.” Odin's voice was cold and deep, as if spoken from a giant's throat. In his hand, Gungnir shone as a beacon in absence of moon and stars.

Garmr drew no steel in order to carry out his threat, he simply leapt towards the Allfather, his hands outstretched as if they were talons. By the time he tackled Odin from his mount, he was a wolf once more, pawing at the hard packed ground and shouting his anger to the skies above. Odin, quick to recover, drew Gungnir against the next blow, and their fight was commenced.

In horror, Thor looked on as his father and the wolf battled. The Wylde light that protected the wolf kept his father's forces from leveling the threat – the same magick that let Garmr approach unaided left the fight between him and Odin alone.

Alarmed, Thor made to rush forward. He ran, finding his footing upon the rocks, slick with blood. Bodies were everywhere upon the Field of Twilight, fallen from every side. The world around him pitched from left to right, as if dry land had become the rolling sea. Yggdrasil, he realized, sick – her roots had been torn, and now the great mass of her wobbled dangerously upon the cosmos.

Who would so catch the mother that did so long hold them all? It was an answer he could not think on – would not think on. And so he pushed forward.

Only to have his path interrupted by a great mass before him. 

He skidded to a half, his boots slipping in the mire. A scaled wall was before him – gleaming and wet, shaded from the deepest blues to the richest of greens – as if composed from the most enchanted of deep waters. The scales were slick with saltwater, algae and sea moss clinging to the mass before him.

Confused, Thor stepped back, and found another such wall behind him. 

It was nothing so made by hands, but rather birthed . . . Coils, Thor realized, his mind boggling to process the information. He stood within the coils of a great serpent, a serpent seemingly massive enough to surround a very world within his grasp.

Sure enough, when Thor looked up, there was a massive head staring down at him – serpentine eyes glazed and gold upon him, a long forked tongue tasting the air – searching. The coils of the snake still reached to the sea, where they had long since rested from time's beginning.

No wonder the Yggdrasil rocked so, with such a weight shifting upon her boughs . . .

“Thou shall not interfere, Thunderer,” the snake hissed, his syllables crawling up and down Thor's skin – itching along his bones. “Long have the eyes of me and mine watched the reign of Bor and his sons. None are worthy to hold the trust of the Ancients, and so – the cosmos shall be engulfed in fire to start again.”

“I cannot let that happen,” Thor said. He thought of his family, his people, of every realm he had vowed to protect and raise as his own. “I hope you understand that.”

The snake's laughter sounded as needles in his ears, sharp and jabbing. “You, little one, waving your sticks and stones, how can you think to strike against the likes of me?”

“I have fought bigger,” Thor declared arrogantly, even when he combed his mind to remember such a fight. He came up empty.

He could not aid his own father, he understood in that moment, dread thick behind his stomach. Odin's fight against the wolf would be his own.

Just as Thor's would face the world-serpent.

“We shall see, Thunderer,” the massive wyrm humored him.

Thor grinned as he felt Mjölnir strong and ready in hand. On the horizon, thunder rumbled – not his own, but an omen none the less. 

Today would be a day of all days for Asgard and Yggdrasil eternal. Of that, he was sure of.

 

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In dreams, the Thunderer called his storms.

 

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And Sif took up her arms against the force of nightmares, herself.

She found herself at an impasse – fighting with bludgeoning blows meant to stun and bruise, all the while trying to keep from harming Thor's body any more than she had to. Mara was even quicker than her friend, granting Thor's massive limbs an unnatural speed. His blows were pummeling, not pulled as she was accustomed to facing. She found herself striking and parrying with her shield more often than not, hesitant to use her blade upon her friend. Even if she were to take the head from Thor, she doubted that such a blow would halt Mara. 

How did one fight another who held no corporeal form? she wondered furiously. How did one slay a spirit?

She skidded backwards from one of Mara's blows. The force of Thor's hit landed upon her shield, but still it pushed at her – pushed her all the way to the edge of the pool, and Sif stepped back into the water in order to retain her balance. Her feet struck the pool with a splash, sending a froth of water upwards, splashing them both.

Across from her, Mara winced within Thor's body.

Sif paused as understanding hit her.

Her shield . . . Throughout the battle, she learned that Mara could not strike against her shield due to the seiðr enchanting it. Seiðr which was laid by the rights of Niflheimr, the magicks of mists and ice. Her shield slowed Mara; and the waters from which she was sprung struck her as if burned.

Fight ice with ice, Loki had said within her dream.

Understanding in her veins, Sif took to the fight with a renewed energy. She struck with her shield, staying as close as she could to the dream-thief. So close to her shield, Mara could only keep her one shape; her one body with her one voice. Thor's body; and if Sif could force Mara from the Thunderer, and he from her . . .

She fought quick. The ferocity of her blows would tire her quicker than Mara, and the grin upon Thor's face said that Mara knew that as well. Still she pressed forward, pummeling with her shield – forcing Mara to defend more than she attacked. 

Mara's assault was clumsy. Thor's body was a weapon in the hands of the dream-thief, but the years of warring that normally decorated Thor's attacks were missing when in Mara's control. Better had the wraith stuck with her visions, for in a fair fight, the other would have been sorely wanting. Many were the blow which Sif landed which would have been fatal on an opponent of flesh and bone. The years Sif had spent sparring with Thor were useless to her now. She knew Thor's moves as second as her own – could read his feints in the flex of his muscles, and his intentions in the cast of his eyes. Mara painted her friend a stranger, and the hundreds of souls who so made Mara's own made her attack a patchwork of inspirations and styles.

Over time, it would have wore her down – no matter how perfect her own fight was.

But Sif did not need to win this fight. She merely needed to overwhelm her.

Sensing her intent, her shield began to glow in her hand, the spells within incensed – for the shield held a rage of its own, and the bright shadow of Loki's power rose against Mara's icy strength.

For a moment, Sif saw Mara falter. Her eyes within Thor turned, as if she considered shedding the body she had borrowed altogether for the strength of her multiple forms.

Sif grinned, the points of her teeth sharp in her smile.

She had turned them over the course of her attack – turned them so that Mara was between Sif and the pool. So harder Sif struck, keeping her shield moving so that Mara could not switch their advantages. She would not give her ground.

And then Sif gave a mighty shove.

Without heed for balance, she ducked low, and bowled into the wraith woman – hitting her low in Thor's stomach. She held her shield before her, using it as a battering ram in order to knock the other over. Over and back . . .

And into the pool with both of them.

Mara's scream turned silent as the water consumed them. Desperately, she tried to shed her form, and blue veins criss-crossed about Thor's skin as if a ghost were trying to rise from his very bones. Sif held her shield between them, and wrapped her arms tight about the dream-thief, trapping her. Mara may be able to leave Thor behind, but her own form would be trapped. She would not be able to take on the shape of the waters around them. Her form would be her prison this way.

Mara clawed mightily at her skin – nails digging, and strong fingers searching, but Sif's will was stronger. Her grip was absolute.

Above them, Thor's body floated to the surface, ready to be reclaimed by the living once again.

Sif forced Mara down further.

To the deep with both of them, then.

 

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Sif forced upon the dream-thief a nightmare of her own.

 

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And Thor stood before the world-serpent, ready to battle.

 

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Around them, Ragnarök raged.

Their armies clashed; and both sides fell. Less and less could Thor hear the ring of steel, the cries of battle. He had lost sight of the white winged Valkyrie. In the sky above them, the Wylde lights danced, doused and dying as on the wind ash flew along with plumes of smoke as the battlefield burned. Surtr raised his flaming head, and Níðhöggr exhaled a fire fit to render the world tree asunder.

Around them, all burned. 

And Thor was helpless to stop anything – to aid anyone, not with his own monster before him. The nightmare wyrm from the watery deep who held the ocean currents in his coils and the pulse of the waves in his eyes . . . The serpent flashed his massive coils, and struck with his monstrous fangs, and Thor was hard pressed to keep one step ahead in the battle they waged.

Beyond them, Odin and the Helhound fought to the bitter end. Thor had never seen another take his lord father to such ends in battle before. The Allfather faltered, and the wolf pressed on, his eyes slipping lupine and moon bright in the darkness that was all consuming, all about them. The wolf, it would seem, was touched by some sort of magic – for the same enchantments that made the guards unable to strike against the hound also made Odin's blows glancing. No blood was drawn. No wound was set.

Odin, great and terrible, waged his fight, and Garmr steadily matched him blow for blow.

Around Thor, another coil fell, drawing his eyes back to his task at hand.

It was time to end this then, he decided.

He pummeled against the walls of the serpent's coils with Mjölnir, but the hammer did not to put even a dent in the colossal mass of the snake before him. He hissed in laughter.

Beyond them, Odin slipped; the talons upon Garmr's hands striking dangerously close to a killing blow.

The breath in Thor's lungs spiked at the sight, and his next blow was clumsy – leaving just enough time for a massive coil to wrap around him. Once. Twice.

Thor found himself caught as he was lifted – higher and higher as a mountain of scaled circles brought him eye to eye with the serpent. The coils tightened about him, threatening to crush his chest. Already he could feel the sick sensation of his ribs giving under the pressure surrounding him. The coils clenched, and he could feel his lungs struggle for air.

When he stared at the snake's eyes, thunder dominated his gaze.

“Thunderer,” the snake hissed. “See how all about you turns to dust and ash . . .”

For the battle had slowed beyond them, and flames licked at the horizon. They swallowed the sea, and those left standing faced the consuming fire with determined faces. The Twilight had not yet taken all from them.

But still it tried.

Right beyond them, Odin Allfather fell before the Helhound's blows. He stared defiantly through one eye, looking up as Garmr towered over him, demanding that he repent for a list of deeds that Thor did not understand. And, in the end, Odin did nothing more than turn his throat to the Hound. He would not give his words. Great and proud was his father, and even in that moment he would not bend. He would not yield. His silence was as full as if Garmr had stitched his very lips closed.

Thor could not find his breath.

Then, with the cold calmness of an executioner, Garmr struck true.

There was such a silence upon the battlefield, as around them, Yggdrasil screamed. The great mother screamed, and Odin's death was felt through her pain as she lost her representation of flesh and bone upon the land. The world around them pitched drunkenly, as if Asgard was thrown as a ship upon the sea.

Yggdrasil tottered; and finally, she could hold herself up no longer.

At the sight of Garmr flicking Odin's blood away from his clawed hands, something inside of Thor ignited. Rage lit within him at the destruction all around him. His dying comrades. His brothers in arms. The people whose sworn vow it was for him to protect. All fell, all died, and flames rendered the horizon apart in place of sun and stars.

Incensed, Thor felt that spark of light deep inside of him. And, with his rage, he lit that spark, felt it as lightning – watched it grow until it was fit to cut across the sky.

He screamed, and the storms cut loose from him. The sky rumbled, and lightning forked down to consume the beast whose coils so held him. The violence of the storm was all consuming, giving the serpent not a chance to escape. For the rain touched everything. Thunder was heard by every ear, and lightning never failed to spark fire in the world below.

The world within the serpent's eyes spun, the globe of it like the consumed moon as it set. It hid as jagged blue tongues of lightning consumed his scales. The iridescent light blinded him for a moment, but it did not consume him. He was the storm's favored son, and they would aid him this one last time.

The smoking coils loosened. They released him.

And Thor touched the ground as organic matter rained down about him. Blood made his landing slippery, and scales the size of his fists fell in an unnatural parody of rain upon the air. The scent in the air was cooked – rank and toxic as the fumes from the snake's venom caught fire and burned as if possessed. 

Yet, even as Thor brushed the gore from his hair, a thick and vicious liquid continued to pour all about him. It was not blood, but something else, he thought when the drops burned as they fell – like acid, tunneling into his skin. It was not blood, but venom, Thor realized somewhat stupidly as the putrid liquid rained all about him.

He held his breath against the fumes, and still they burned his eyes.

He coughed, and the violent motion only served to make him inhale even more deeply. He could not escape the stain of the fumes. His feet were stuck in an ever growing pool of the liquid. It burned through his boots until the acid found yielding skin beneath, stealing his stride from him.

Around him, the flames touched the venom, and like a forest fire, the inferno was prepared to rage.

 _Away_ , Thor knew he had to get. He had to get _away_. Away from the rotting course before him, and the venom that was suddenly an ocean at his feet. He had to get away from the flames, and to his dying father's side. There was still a retreat to be saved for those who lived, if not a victory, for the Twilight would not take its all from them . . .

But, only if he could get _away_.

Yonder prophesy waiting, he took that first step.

 

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And Sif held her breath against the ice and the water and the sounds of Mara's screams – she heard the nightmares in the deep of her, rather than through her ears. Water could carry no sound, but Mara was not made of flesh and bone, and Sif was long used to being a receptacle for seiðr and all of its might.

In Sif's mind, unbidden, she thought of seiðr, and the dark eyed wielder whom she held so dear to her. She saw him like a dream in her mind's eye, and before her, Mara faltered.

Suddenly, Sif understood.

Ice would destroy Mara's physical form – or, render it still, at any rate. And to defeat the spirit itself . . . Dreams. She needed _dreams_. Mara was all the black ether of nightmares and the despair of the unwaking hours. She could not stand the light of dreams, the warmth of them . . .

And so, Sif pressed her shield harder into the throat of the nightmare woman, and called to mind her fondest dreams.

 

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That second step.

 

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Arms wrapped tight about Mara, Sif let herself dream.

Her first dream was a young one, warm and golden within her mind – a dream of her very first memories. She dreamed of her lady mother, Lady Gná, with her strong hands callused from riding, and her dark eyes which so matched her quick words. Always did Gná have her tales to tell before the hearth as she braided her daughter's golden hair each and every night. Her tales of her great love – the warrior who had been known to the mortals as War itself, thus giving Sif her inherited title once she had come of age. Lord Týr had been the fiercest of Odin's warriors, and Gná's tales painted him with flashing silver and dragon's scales in place of armor. He had fallen in the Great War, leaving behind a widow and an unborn daughter – but to his child he had bequeathed war cries and battle blooded veins. His story was not yet done while Sif so lived.

Sif had listened to her mother's tales, and she had listened well – listened to tales of giants felled, and trolls whose great bridges were overturned. Listened to tales of heroic deeds, and the awaiting halls of Valhalla where someday she would meet her father, ever fierce and bold. She remembered the story teller's hum to her mother's words – the magic that pulsed with the dance of the flames in the hearth before them. For such tales were not meant for the light of day. Their mysticism and power was meant for the shadows; their every secret was meant to be held by brilliant flame and star above.

Her dream shifted to later years, where clever fingers again plaiting her hair for her during the evening hours; only, this time the tresses were black enough to match the night all around them. His stories had always dripped with his magic in those hours, and always did Sif lean back into him and dream of a day when she could pass the tales onto her own children, in her own tongue – for that was the way that hearth spells and storyteller's magic continued on through the years. The dream was dear to her – more so than that of a warrior's glory and battle's honor. This was the ultimate dream. The ultimate _gift_.

And so, to Mara she pushed the dream of family.

 

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A third step.

 

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In her arms, Mara pulsed. Her mouth was held open in an unholy scream that the water could not carry. Sif closed her eyes against it, and called upon a different dream.

In her mind's eye, her thoughts filled with memories of Asgard eternal. She saw it all behind her closed eyes – saw the realm golden and grand and gleaming. Many there were the nooks and crannies she had explored as a child - the fields where Volstagg had taught her arms, the wide and grassy lanes where her mother had taught her how to ride. She knew the ins and out of the palace – the halls where she had reveled, the thronerooms where she had made obeisance to her sovereign and received his praise in return – as well as the shapes and whorls of her own skin. The depths of the libraries where she had stolen away with the second son were shadows to the story of her life; and the highest points of the palace where she had sat and polished her steel with the first son were the interludes, soft and gentle.

She dreamed then of her little glade – _their_ little glade, sheltered within the woods around the palace like the space between lungs and heart. She called to mind the mossy bank where her hair had fallen to as it was severed from her head. The stones which were criss-crossed in webs of white and silver, scarred from her blade as she practiced her warring arts. The trees which had born scars and deep marks from Loki when he had learned his more powerful magicks. The stream that had pulsed with an ancient song – soothing; the wild magic in the core of the place a balm to Loki with his seiðr was past his control, and a easing to Sif when her warring veins pulsed past her ability to master. 

She dreamed next of Lady Gná's hearth, and her childhood bed; the dreams which she had made there. She dreamed of Frigg's hall, where the lady queen would let them sit and play as children as she wove futures for them all. She dreamed of the secret ways between the palace halls – dreamed of darting through them with her shadowed companion; stealing kisses in the armory, in the antechambers, in the common rooms they shared with all. How he would cloak them from sight at a feast and kiss her in full view of everyone, though no one could see, they never did . . . Still, at the memory, Sif warmed in a way that Mara would never understand. For home was more than roof and hearth, it was those that resided within that was the true strength of a house's walls. _Family_ , always it would be as thick a necessary as any mere life's blood.

And so, to Mara, Sif pushed the dream of home.

 

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The fourth step. 

 

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Her shield had turned to ice in her hands, shining blue and cold against the depths of Mara's waters. Still the spirit in her hold wavered. She fought.

And Sif dreamed.

Again, she dreamed of home. She dreamed of the dusty circles in the queen's gardens where she had learned to take up arms next to the young men of Asgard. She dreamed of small hands struggling to grasp grown men's weapons, and of scraped knees and scratched cheeks as Volstagg refused to pull his blows when instructing she and her companions in those tender years - for an enemy would show no mercy, and better they learned early how to wield a sword with a broken wrist; how to tuck and roll and stave off a blade when her lungs ached and her palms sweated and her armor stuck with blood. How quickly her feet learned the steps of the battlefield in those days – as quickly as her sisters learned to dance and sew did Sif learn to feint and cross feint; learned how to level a giant by aiming for the knees, how to slay a dragon by walking through his flames. 

She dreamed of the camaraderie she found with her brothers in arms. She dreamed of Thor and his ferocity, the way he made the battle an extension of his palms – blow and block as natural as breathing as his rains struck them all, causing mud to tug at their boots, her hair to stick thickly at her neck. She dreamed of Volstagg's heavy blows, of Fandral's elegant footwork, of Hogun's unerring aim. She dreamed of the armies of Asgard rolling like a wave over the shore – steel in their hands, and silver in their lungs as they took what the waters owed them. She dreamed of Loki at her side, spells set for skin to render and blood to spill, and eyes so very verdant as he moved with an uncanny grace – more a raindrop making its way to the earth below where Thor was sun and sky thundering above. How sweet was the taste of victory; how kindred the taste of copper in her throat and on her tongue after so many years forging her path to Valhalla's golden halls.

She dreamed of the first time she laced up the leathers about her torso, protecting her core. The plates binding her breasts, and the metal circling her legs was made to keep muscle and vein from harm rather than to emphasize grace and beauty. She brushed the curls from her hair, and tied that back too. She never again cut her hair like Volstagg and her instructors urged her to, and she wore no helmet in the melee – instead she dared an enemy to grab at her most cherished possession. She pitied the fool who grabbed for the tresses of the Lady Sif – for such was her boast, and her haughty claim to arms. It was her pride, and her shield saying _I have forged this path, and you may touch me not_.

She dreamed of the weight of her shield upon her back, the feel of the hilt of her glaive in her hands – how the rough leather caught upon the thick palms of her gloves. How her fingernails would bleed in the most intense of fights; how her lungs would heave, and her veins would pulse. 

She dreamed of her father then, made bright and eternal by Valhalla's golden halls. How Týr must smile with pride over the mantle of war his daughter made her own. She dreamed of someday joining him herself – taking to one knee and offering him her sword and vowing to the memory of his name. She dreamed of the memory in her mother's eyes when she first came home with her armor scuffed and her shield bloodied – her eye blackened and her ribs bruised, but _alive_ where her enemy was not – and remembered the pride in Gná's eyes. The way her rein calloused hands had touched the darkening skin on her face, and said, “Your father would find honour in your path.”

That _pride_. That _honor_. The knowledge that she fought the fights that others could not . . . It was a warrior's dream she pushed to Mara, and Mara felt the dream as a dagger to the heart.

 

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Five steps, then.

 

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She dreamed then of the fae rings of Álfheimr – dreamed of the elven dances and shadow songs the wooded races sung to the moon above. She dreamed of the air shimmering with the strength of the Wylde hunt over the cosmos. _Magic_. Magic like the spells Eir held within her healing hands. The magic of her Queen Frigg before the loom. The magic of ravens cawing over their battlefields, the magic of mother Yggdrasil whispering into her veins during the midnight hours.

She dreamed of Loki again upon such thoughts – dreamed of them young and just entering into their powers. Dreamed of him as he painted runes onto his skin and chanted his right words under his breath. How his voice turned from liquid silver to something elemental in those moments; something warm, as if it were heated from within – like blood heated by a pumping heart, like stones made flaming by the molten core of their worlds. There was an intangible strength to him when he surrendered himself so – an _untouchable_ strength, like that of storm or tide. How his eyelids flickered, she knew the shape of their crease. Knew how thick and full they were when he blinked over eyes that had turned completely green, the dark parts of his pupils swallowed as he gave his gaze over to the seiðr in his veins. He could take any shape he wanted in those moments, and she had asked him what it was like to fly when he'd come back to her with feathers in his hair, and his voice still coarse from avian screams.

She dreamed of dragon scales still sticking to his skin. Dreamed of his books out and open as they lit from within under their own light, the runes dancing in the air before them. Dreamed of dancing with him in those fae rings, and having him translate the song within her ear. Dreamed of him as a shadow, sneaking over her skin, and hiding in the hollow of her throat when others would think him absent. Dreamed of his insufferable teasing as the shadows tickled like laughter behind her ears, and Thor would question as to what ailed her when she fidgeted.

She dreamed of his dreams inside her own, of the worlds between worlds; the paths between Yggdrasil's boughs, and the mighty mother's great favour as her chosen son walked through her starry expanses. How the starlight had played upon their skin in those hours. How Sif had breathed in the cosmos' song and exhaled magic into the nothingness that held them. How the stars did so writhe and war and devour themselves when seen from up close. How she felt she could challenge even their great heat with his enchantments at her back. By her side.

Always, seiðr was the open door between the gateways of creation, the path ever winding where steel was both guard and a closing to the courses that had run their way. Always was Yggdrasil content upon this balance. _Balance_ , as he to she, and her to him.

Now, her shield pulsed with memories of the magic he held. Begotten by his blood for her own, and she would not forsake the gift that too many considered trite.

And so, to Mara, she pushed her dreams of magic.

 

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The sixth step.

 

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.

Mara's face stretched and contorted, and yet she was bound to her shape by the shield in her hands. Still, she pulled back her lips, her mouth a fighting grimace. Sif bared her teeth in the water, and matched her; for her dreams had long since rang with thunder, and Mara could match her not.

When she and her companions had taken their warrior's oath, they had visited the Norn sisters, as was custom to her people. In the long life of an Aesir, there were only three occasions where one visited the Fates. The first was at birth, when the parents took their children to receive their names and riddles for their future years. (Names told all, and they told true; for Skuld had dubbed the first son _Thor_ , whose name meant thunder to those who still knew how to translate such things. Skuld had named Sif, whose name meant affinity and bride – a title which had long been a jest of her companions a wry source of humor for her lady mother. Skuld had named Loki after a long pause, and had given him a name which meant closings. Ends. Final and absolute. The riddles past their names were secrets only their parents held, and held close and dear.). After a birth reading, the Nornir would only meet an Aesir to advise a new warrior; and again to advise a newly married couple. The couple would then return with their children once that time came, and then the cycle would begin again.

It had been Skuld who had whispered of the thunder to come. Urðr who had spoken of lightning as if it had already passed them. And Verðandi who had whispered how the ground had shook when they arrived. The fates had spoken true, for it was during a dark elf raid on the weapon's vault that Thor had lifted Mjölnir for the first time – the hammer that had been created at great cost, and would only rise to the call of its chosen one. While a powerful weapon, its true strength had not been revealed until Loki had placed his hand onto the hilt alongside Thor's, and channeled his magic into the object, unlocking his brother's control over the storms. They had been such a force then, the lightning in Thor's eyes such a light – more brilliant than any natural phenomenon above them.

As a child, Sif had feared thunder. She had spent stormy nights by her mother's side as Lady Gná counted their heartbeats aloud – showing her their rhyme and reason. Now, the storms heralded victory – and she could not think of lightning without thinking of Thor with the battle bright in his eyes, brilliant enough to match the intensity of the storms around him.

Already the ground had quaked under them, as if Yggdrasil herself was rumbling her great boughs in approval. And, in many ways, their tales had just begun.

And so, to Mara, she pushed her dreams of storms.

 

.  
.

The seventh step.

 

.  
.

And Sif dreamed one last dream.

Her dream peaked, and dipped through time. She dreamed of the centuries to come – long after Odin would take his final sleep, and the land about them would rumble in anticipation for its new king. She dreamed of how Thor would look them – with his armor bright and gleaming. He would have a full beard by then, and his hair would be golden and long. The restlessness in his veins would have stilled, ringed as tightly as a ripple's center; a calmness and wisdom in his eyes that she knew her friend capable of, no matter how many times he had proved to the contrary. And for when he couldn't be . . . by his side she saw his brother, cleanly shaven, but hair long as well, gathered in an elegant tail at the back of his neck. He wore talismans about his neck in an open acknowledgment of his sorcery (where, in their present, it was rare she could get him to light a candle in public, in view of others), and his armor sat easily upon him where he now only wore ceremonial garb along with winces and sighs.

In her minds eye, Loki would be jesting, using quick and clever words to put Thor at ease. Such a camaraderie she saw – a perfect pair for Asgard's helm, with Thor's heart and Thor's goodness, and Loki's cleverness and Loki's plans. Steel and seiðr, for the good of Asgard and all of Yggdrasil eternal.

It was her most cherished dream, how Thor would step to stand before Asgard to take the crown. He would march out before the crowd, and Loki would linger behind with her. He would lift her hand to his lips, and kiss the back with that wicked smirk ever present in his eyes. “My lady,” he would whisper in that dark voice of his, and she would walk before the people on his arm in an open claim for all to see. How people would remark upon them – the darkly spun prince, and the shield-maiden with the hair as black as night; both shadows to fair and golden Asgard – the price who would learn magicks over arms, and the girl who would learn to take up steel rather than hearth. A fitting pair they would be to stand behind Thor, mighty and bold.

And Asgard would rejoice while Sif stood back and reflected that it was _this_. This was what she had fought and bled for. This was what her steel flashed for. This is what her shield defended. Always. Ever and always.

At the dream, she shivered, her mind born away upon the wings of her fantasy.

And so, to Mara, Sif pushed all of her hopes and dreams of the future.

 

.  
.

Thor took that eighth step.

.  
.

And Mara screamed.

In her arms, the form that Mara held splintered – like glass once struck before it broke. Thin lines criss-crossed over her body; decorating her icy limbs like diamond dust and lace. The harsh curves cut in deep, rendering unnatural flesh apart just as a blade would. The fault lines told a tale of weakness, they sang a promise of defeat. All one had to do was find the proper shatter point, and push.

Over her heart, the webbing lines met. They pulsed.

With her shield, Sif _pushed_.

In her arms, Mara shattered.

Around her, the frigid pool shimmered as if all the ice and water was nothing more than a mirror. Shards glinted, reflecting the light and magic of the depths of nightmares until Sif herself peered into the openings of thousands of dreams. Millions of voices echoed in her ears – calling for her as they were dragged deeper and deeper underneath by the sinking Mara.

Still holding her shield, Sif could do nothing more than watch them drown.

Above her, light broke over the surface of the water. It called to her. Turning away from the remnants of the nightmare woman, Sif kicked mightily for the surface. 

 

.  
.

Thor took that ninth step -

(For nine steps would be left to the son of Odin, the Nornir had whispered when they whispered their tale of the Twilight to their king and queen. Nine steps and then down in the serpent's venom the Thunderer would fall. How bright the horror had been on Odin and his queen's face as the prophesy fell from Skuld's lips. The silence from the weaving loom was only broken by the sound of a child's gurgling – the golden prince playing quietly next to the stolen one, both ignorant of the future to come.)

\- and that step was his last.

 

.  
.

Sif broke the surface.

 

.  
.

And Thor fell, drowning in a pool of the felled serpent’s venom.

He laid there, unable to move as the acid corrupted his lungs. He was paralyzed as the venom ate through his armor. He could feel it burn upon his skin, scouring a path to his veins. He felt thick and sticky, as if the ether of him had spilled open to become one with the dying land beneath him. 

He hiccuped in a breath. Another. His lungs constricted. He felt them burn.

A shadow fell over him, consuming and black. The touch of it was tangible – cool where around him the field of Ragnarök only _burned_. No longer could Thor hear the sounds of battle beyond him – only the roar of flames. The boughs popped and hissed as logs on a fire as the world tree fell. Turned to ash. He could no longer hear her scream. No longer did she gasp into the torn cosmos. And, still left in her care, the Thunderer tried to breathe with poison in his veins; as if by doing so he could breathe and fight enough for them both.

The shadow stretched before falling closer. There was a figure who knelt down next to him. Thor tried to see, but the acid was eating at his eyes. His vision was failing him.

But touch was still a painful sensation. Touch was still acute; and touch he felt clearly as a hand reached out to cover his own. The touch was cool, even with the threat of fire all around them. Long and elegant fingers curved about his own with the tenderness of kin – moving over him to smooth the remnants of the armor on his chest, touching his cheek as if a traveler searching a map he had long since had no use of. The pain from the venom faded in the wake of the touch. A healer's magic? Thor wondered. He could see no more than shapes before him – a smearing of green, the long sweep of horns, gleaming golden in the dying light.

“I had not wanted this to end this way,” the voice said, a whisper born away by ash and flames. “Forgive me . . . please, forgive me.”

Instinctively, Thor tried to grasp the hands which had wrapped about his own. Instinctively, he tried to return the touch.

He coughed, felt black venom pool in his veins.

“Sleep now,” the voice whispered, and then Thor understood. The cool hands moved to rest on his chest, and there such a light built. In that moment he was thankful that he would not be left to die a slow death in the snake's venom. Better to end it this way, engulfed in the light that grew and grew and _grew_ from the figure's hands. A warm golden light that carried him away as if to sleep; granting him a death in peace rather than a death in strife. It was a small mercy. “Sleep brother,” the last words were whispered. “I shall be right behind you.”

The light warmed, and Thor felt himself fall away . . .

 

.  
.

On the bank of Mara's pools, Thor was where he had surface when Sif had forced Mara's soul from his body. She broke the water next to him, scrambling onto the bank, and tugged his limp body up behind her. She settled him on the shore, her shaking hands smoothing down the plates of his armor, and cradling his head in her lap. As if they were children and she was trying to awaken him past where he had slept in, she poked at his shoulders, slapped at his cheeks.

“Come on now, Thor,” she insisted. “Wake up!”

His eyes were still closed, but she did not deter. Again, she struck him, empowered when she saw how color returned to his cheek at her blow. He was still there, deep inside. Mara did not steal all of his warmth – not from _Thor_ , who burned hotter and more brightly than any other Sif had ever known.

“Awaken!” she insisted again, shaking his shoulders. “Thor, you must _wake up_.”

She shifted, and leaned down, her hair upon his skin as she pressed her ear to his heartbeat. It flickered, low and strong. Two of her fingers she pressed against his pulse. His skin was still so cold from Mara's pool.

Underneath her, she felt his lungs expand, grasping for a deep breath.

She straightened, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Thor?” this time she whispered, hope breaking upon her voice.

And he opened his eyes. She had never been so happy to see another's gaze before.

“Brother?” Thor whispered, as if still caught in the thrall of a dream. His eyes were glassy, lost to whatever vision he had just departed from. But he was warming under Sif's hands. The color was returning to him. She felt her joy bubble cool and welcome in her throat, like a spring whose waters had melted from the winter.

She choked back a sob, thankful and full. When Thor's eyes focused upon her – finally aware, understanding settling in their depths, she threw her arms around him, her joy stretching into such a grin upon her face. She was laughing, even as she found tears in her eyes, so grateful was she that the fates had deigned to return him to her.

Thor wrapped an arm around Sif, and held her close as she cried. His own eyes he closed long and slow. Tears were wet upon his cheeks, but he knew not why he wept. He knew only that he had dreamed, and within he had known such a sorrow. Such a sorrow . . . such a regret.

He closed his eyes, and did his best to push his dreams away.

 

.  
.

And far from them, another awakened upon the crest of dreams.

“Brother?” the syllables rounded, warm and full in the hall of Eir. The sound of it was an echo, spoken through organic matter as one channeled the nothingness of a dream. 

From her vigil, Frigg stirred. Through the golden barrier, she took her son's hand, a part of her sickening at the wild look that was in his eyes in his moment of lucidness. His gaze shimmered like that of a wounded animal, lost to a hunt. Such a sorrow lingered there in that gaze, a sorrow that Frigg could not define as she caressed the back of his hand with her thumb, trying to grant what little comfort she could.

Loki blinked . . .

Frigg forgot to breathe for a moment.

And then, to dreams he fell once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Óskópnir** : The field “stretching a hundred leagues in every direction” where Ragnarök was to be fought. Another name for this field is Vigriðr (which it is called in the _Gylfaginning_ and then originally in the _Vafþrúðnismál_ ), which is actually the more scholarly accepted title, which means “battle surge.” The name Óskópnir according to the Poetic Edda poem _Fáfnismál_ means 'not yet created' or 'mismade', which as an author I liked better to associate with the whole Ragnarök mess. 
> 
> **Sif as Týr's Daughter** : For obvious reasons, I had Týr as Sif's father here simply because he is commonly known as the God of War, and I liked the idea of Sif inheriting his title. In the myths, Sif was the Goddess of the Harvest, akin to Demeter/Ceres - rather than a war diety. 
> 
> In the myths, Sif was also a daughter of Odin, and since that would be a much more convoluted web than this fandom already has going for it, different routes had to be sought for her parentage. To fulfill that role, this was my reasoning: way back when, when the Roman Tacitus wrote _Germania_ , he mentioned Týr (whose name means 'God', plain and simple) to be father of the Gods in the west German regions – and oddly enough, he mentioned Odin to be a deity on par with Mercury/Hermes – a fleet of foot messenger, and guider of souls. Now, Jonathan Clements' book “A Brief History of the Vikings” made an interesting point – that the Vikings were a raider culture, and some time during the Migration period when the clans rose and fell in power, Týr could have been replaced in prominence by Odin, and over time the stories shifted to reflected that. So, it was a double 'bam!' for me – keeping Sif's father as the 'father of the gods', of a sort, and corresponding her title of War with Týr's more popular and lasting title in Norse paganism. I ignored Týr's roles in the comics, because, like many things in the comics, Týr's characterization bothered me. And so, I chose not to deal with it. So there.
> 
>  **Garmr in place of Fenrir/Odin's Death** : Is another piece of artistic liberty in this chapter. In both the Prose Edda and the Poetic Edda, Odin is slayed by Fenrir the Wolf – which I think we all know. Now, in the Prose Edda, Garmr is mentioned in relation to Ragnarök only in the manner that his howling at Hel's gate will be one of the signs heralding the Twilight. When Snorri wrote the _Gylfaginning_ , he added in Garmr doing battle with Týr, and the both of them being each others doom. Now, in the myths, Garmr and Fenrir are names that are often interchangeable from translation to translation – which makes sense, if Týr lost his hand when binding Fenrir and then was slayed by a wolf at the Twilight. And so, since I have done away with Týr in my verse, and am quite fond of Garmr's character in correlation with Hela (and even a love interest) . . . well, there you have it. 
> 
> **Thor's Death** : During Ragnarök, he succeeds in slaying Jörmungandr, the Wold Serpent, but he only makes it nine steps before drowning in an ocean of the felled snake's venom.
> 
>  **Thor's Hammer** : Obviously the story I used here is quite different than the myths. But, Mjölnir was already in the weapon's vault when Thor and Loki were kids according to the film, and so I was unsure of how to have Loki commissioning the the hammer, and Odin's spear from the dwarfs. The problem was further compounded when I already so altered the story of Sif's hair – Loki has no reason to have the weapon's forged. So, I did the next best thing by carrying on the Mjölnir = Excalibur trope, and having Loki's hand in it by it being his magic as the thing that unlocks the storms.
> 
>  **Viðarr** : One of Odin's sons, a God of Vengeance, born specifically for avenging his father's death at Ragnarök. He has an 'iron shoe' that he uses to step down on Fenrir/Garmr's lower jaw, and then breaks the upper half, killing the wolf, and letting Odin's spirit depart in peace.
> 
>  **The Wylde Hunt** : When you see the Aurora Borealis, know that it isn't a geomagnetic storm far above in Earth's magnetic sphere – it is instead Odin/Woden leading his celestial hunt across the heavens. 
> 
> **Brünnhilde** : One of the most famous Valkyrie, and a major character in the Völsunga saga. A precursor to the Sleeping Beauty legend – Brünnhilde defied Odin's orders, and turned the tide of a battle away from the side Odin favored. As a result, Brünnhilde was condemned to live as a mortal woman, and was imprisoned in a castle surrounded by flames and thorns, where she waited in an enchanted slumber for a hero to come and awaken her –.


	11. in the halls of the half alive queen

"When in Mara's hold, I dreamed."

It was the first thing spoken in nearly an hour between them. From behind her on the path, Thor's voice came as a point, punctuated when compared to the hollow silence of the caverns around them.

"So I would have assumed," Sif said without turning, doing her best to keep her voice wry and light as they both walked, further and further back into the caverns. The paths before them twisted and turned, but no longer did they seem to be insurmountable before them. Mara's black spirit had fled from Gnipahellir, and now the shadows of the caves were no longer haunted. After another few hours of traveling, Sif hoped that they would stand before the Hel Queen's gates. "Mara had no interest in your mind still and at rest, after all," she pointed out.

Thor's smile was rueful, "Indeed. But . . . as I experienced the dreams, they felt _real_. They felt more like a vision than a dream – even more real than the dreams we had while on the Questing Moon."

Sif was silent for a moment, swallowing so as to hide her fears behind her voice. "It was the same for me," she seconded Thor's opinion.

"And yet," Thor continued, "I can remember little of my dreams now. I remember only bits . . . mere fragments and pieces. I dreamed of the Twilight - that much I remember." That much he never could forget. "I dreamed of the wolf who was to be my father's end, and of the nine steps I took before I fell."

Sif stilled upon hearing that, turning in order to look Thor in the eye. "I dreamed of the Twilight as well," she said, her voice filling with her unease. "I saw the Dragon as he was freed from his prison beneath Yggdrasil's roots, and as for myself, I led a massive army over the field of Óskópnir upon that final day."

Thor's gaze turned warm at that. "As you someday shall," he declared proudly, his voice grand at the thought. "My father would be remiss indeed if he did not trust the hearts and souls of Asgard's warriors to your command when the Twilight comes."

Sif smiled at the compliment, honestly drawn from the deep parts of him and freely given. Her hand tightened over her shield as her blood warmed, making a fist. The metal was once again silent in her hand as it lightened the path before them, illuminating their way. And as they walked, Sif considered her dreams. There was one other part of her visions she wished to remember, but she could not put her finger on it for the life of her. Like every other dream, what had at the time seemed real was now fizzled and faded upon the waking hour. She could not . . . she could not remember where she had sworn to never forget. Her fist clenched as something deep inside of her hurt upon the memory she tried to resurrect. There was something important Mara had showed to her. Something that meant everything to her . . . and she could not call it to mind.

She rolled her eyes at her own mental failings, and at the next dip in the landscape, she slid down the rock face with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Her muscles were still coiled, as if expecting a fight, and she could not still the restlessness in them. There was a reason that they normally left such things to Loki, Sif reflected ruefully, if she was not even able to remember a vision's entirety upon awakening . . ..

But, one thing she did remember . . .

"And still," Sif whispered, "in my dream, everything died."

Thor shrugged, rolling his shoulders like a wave. "It was a nightmare for a reason, my friend – if we had proved triumphant in it, then what would Mara have had to feed off of?"

Sif nodded. Her boot slid across the slick stone. "I suppose you are right," she gave.

"The Nornir have spoken many a dark thing of the time to come, but we will come through it – as we always do. As we always have," Thor continued to assure. There was such a strength to his voice. Such a surety. Sif, who had always been more practical of thought, struggled to take that strength and make it her own.

"I hope your words prove themselves to be true," still she said. That, at least, she wished with every bit of her heart.

"And they shall," Thor declared.

Sif shook her head before focusing back on the task at hand. The deeper and deeper they traveled into the caves, the more strange and outlandish their surroundings became. The rock formations – at first simple things, with teeth jutting up from both the floor and the ceiling - became large and drastic formations, where the rocks both curved like massive curtains and then jutted out like the mouth of a great beast. There were huge dips and canyons and then mighty rooms with hollow holds in their massive depths. And then, just as quickly, the trail would turn cramped – cramped to the point where they would have to stoop in order to make their way through the tunnels. They had passed various underground streams and rivers, and each one smelled sweet and icy and fresh – _pure_ , this close to the spring that had begotten both water and rivers in all of the realms, back during the birth of creation.

Sif let her boots sink deep into the water between the stone masses before them, and imagined that they were just _that_ much closer to the Hvergelmir, and a cure for Loki. At the thought of returning to him – of his eyes opening and locking on her own, her step sped. She was anxious for home, and she was determined to see their quest through in order that she could return.

Behind her, Thor matched her stride, as always.

Eventually they came to a large and cavernous room – one which seemingly stretched down for leagues upon leagues. At the bottom of the cavern, there was no rock, but instead, a sick spin and twirl of nebulae and celestial gasses. Sif peered down, and felt her heart rise in her throat when she realized that she was staring down past where the roots of the great Yggdrasil were set. The Ginnungagap, far beneath them.

Indeed, they had traveled far.

"Watch your step," Thor warned needlessly as they inched forward onto the thin bridge that stretched across the nothingness of the cosmos far beneath them. The trail picked up again on the other side of the bridge – but, instead of the cool stone and caverns which they had been making their way through, there was black rock ahead, a black rock as smooth and as dark as night – the borders of Hel's land.

"And you yours," Sif returned Thor's words when the rocks near his foot crumbled in a worrisome way. Behind them, the horses held, neighing softly at the unspoken danger in the air.

"Souls do not bear much weight when walking upon this path," came a voice from further ahead – from the boundary between the Gnipahellir and Helheimr. "The bridge has not had to be strong for so long that it has forgotten how to be."

Sif's next step drew up short, as did Thor's before her. She felt pebbles break from the toe of her boot, fragile and crumbling. Her pulse had sped up at the appearance of the stranger before them, and her hand fell to the hilt of her glaive out of reflex.

Her eyes narrowed. Thor's next breath came in deep.

"Be still," the man from the other side of the bridge said. "Pass one at a time, and it will hold you."

The voice was warm, liquid and golden so – as deep as her brother Heimdall's tones, and just as ancient. Perhaps even more so.

Sif peered to see the man's face, but she could only see a man dressed in white. His form was blurry to her. But, the closer they came to the bridge's end, the easier clarity became. The man was a tall one – standing eye to eye with Thor, who did so stand over them all. He had rich, caramel colored skin – the color of mead in the firelight, and his eyes were a golden color fit to blaze. He had long hair, just a shade or two darker than his skin, which was drawn into a neat braid down the center of his back. He was bare chested, but he wore the pelt of a white wolf over his shoulders; the massive fur swallowed him, draped as it was over the tops of his arms, and then left to drag upon the cavern floor from his back. Upon his chest, red runes were painted in blood – tattooed on, Sif would wager, spelling out a tale of Hel's own hand. The marks were repeated in tiny little etchings on his high cheekbones, telling a story that only magic would ever fully understand.

Besides that, he wore leather trousers and sturdy boots, more in the style of a woodsman, or a hunting man than any warrior or nobleman. No steel hung from his belt, but when he talked his teeth were pointed, and the nails on his hands had been filed to a sharp tip, like claws. His smile was lupine; his eyes as bright as if he had swallowed the moon and used her glow to fire his gaze.

He was old magic before them, and Sif did not remove her hand from her weapon.

"Mara's pools spoke of your arrival," the man said, his words spinning a welcome.

"Did they now?" Thor returned the words, and there was such a distaste in his voice; thundering and strong. Sif looked up at the tone, feeling as it struck. "It makes sense that such villains would hold each other in confidence."

"Thor?" Sif questioned when the other drew Mjölnir, every line in his body proclaiming him ready for battle.

The stranger was calm before them, staring into the storm of the Thunderer's rage without blinking.

"It was _he_ I saw," Thor said, his voice mighty, his rage strong. "It was _he_ who slew my father upon the Twilight. Garmr Helhound, he was called by my father's mouth. While much of the vision Mara bestowed upon me is blurred, _that_ much I cannot forget."

Sif felt an uneasy rolling in her bones as she remembered the cry of wolves and the light fading from the sky above them until all around was night - an eternal night to end the forever-winter. Ragnarök. Their twilight and bitter end.

Garmr's wolf like eyes were still calm. He did not move to hold himself in a defensive stance. If Thor would have struck then, his victory would have been assured. "You have my sympathies for the dreams you suffered at Mara's hands. And yet, I am a face well known to her, and often one whom she portrays in her dreams. And they were just that, son of Odin – _dreams_ , called forth and fed upon your darkest of fears. Your fiercest of emotions."

Thor held the other's gaze, long and steady. Sif stood at ready by his side, uncertainty plaguing her mind. Garmr's words made sense – they explained much, but not all. For how could Sif and Thor's dreams be the same? How could such a vision – so tangible and real – be nothing more than a nightmare? An affliction of children when they had sat too long by the fire and listened to the skalds and their tales.

Thor still held his storms in his gaze, not nearly swayed.

"It is unfortunate that Mara was a foe you had to face at all, she was under orders to stay away from your path. Your warmth was not hers to take." When Garmr smiled, the grin was fanged. "Of course, it is rare that the living venture here, especially those of such blood – we should have known that you would have been a temptation she could not have resisted. Of course, now she sleeps at the bottom of her pool, and it will be centuries before she can recover enough to take a form once more – in that sense, her greed and treason was rewarded."

Thor's brow furrowed. "So the dream-thief did not fall?"

Garmr shook his head. "Nay, and it would have been disaster for all should she have. She may seem like a dark entity to you – and it is true that her ether is blackly spun. But without her to siphon off the terror from dreams – from those mortal and immortal alike, the unwaking hours would be unbearable for all. Mother Yggdrasil and the Ancients were wise with their creation, and none were created to hold evil within their souls for evil's sake. That true evil, along with greed, came later, and then death."

His words wove, and Sif could find no fault in them. Still, Thor was unyielding before her.

Slowly, then, his hand fell to his side. He did not sheath Mjölnir, but no longer did he stand poised to deal a blow.

Garmr tilted his head. "The land has sang with your presence, flame-born. Even the souls have picked up their stride with you here, for they are not used to having such a light in this place. We have watched your journey, and now, it is at the dread Queen's request that I take you hither to the hall of Éljúðnir."

At that, Thor completely sheathed his hammer. For one sovereign to take another now would be an unforgivable act by the treaty that the realms all lived by. "The Hel Queen would see us then?"

Sif rotated her weight on the balls of her feet, eager to move forward. With Hel's permission, and Hel's words, they would be one step closer to Hvergelmir and the healing waters the spring would give.

"Indeed, she would like nothing better," Garmr grinned, the movement lifting the runes etched into his cheeks. They glinted as they caught the light – like a sword flashing in the high sun. "Now, if you would follow me . . ."

Thor turned to look at her, his gaze considering. Sif returned it, and nodded.

Then, together, they turned away from the Gnipahellir, and walked into the land of Hel.

.

.

Helheimr was a dark and celestial place.

Within the towering walls that surrounded the realm, there was a city to be found made entirely of black rock and dark green glass. In an odd, disorienting way, the city looked almost exactly like Asgard itself – with its grand bridges and elegant balconies, its floating towers and its strong fortresses. In between the city's buildings, crystal clear and deep blue rivers flowed – the water so pure that it seemed to be poured from liquid diamonds and silver steel before it was shaped. The rock, black though it was, was not porous, and when one looked closely, one could see a reflection of the cosmos swirling in the material. To the west were the mountains which Thor and Sif had crossed under. And, to the east, the horizon was eaten and consumed by the fires of Náströnd and the great dragon Níðhöggr who resided there. Overhead, in place of sun and stars, a thick mist swirled – like a storm when it passed over the water. In the depths of that mist, thousands and thousands of tiny lights swirled, and it took Sif a moment to realize that those lights were not stars, but _souls_.

Souls, who waited above, and flowed in the waters below – souls, whose very light made the city pulse with a brilliance all its own. This place was not the fiery and terrible tale told in mankind's myths and legends, but a celestial and brilliant place where those who had died came to find their after – to be judged by their deeds, and to spend out their eternity in accordance with those deeds.

On the walkways, there were fully grown souls, as well – those who had already been judged, and stayed to serve Hel and her kingdom. They were hazy reflections before Sif – almost see through, translucent like mist, their very bones lit up by a shining white light. They wore shadows of their past selves in that light – the implications of armor and gowns and hair styled in the same way as they had been in life. But their stares were hollow; ancient, lost to death and her mysteries.

As they walked through the heart of the city, Sif could feel a fine mist gather upon her skin, but the water never grew to sink through her armor. She simply felt cleansed – refreshed and at peace. There was an ever constant song in the air – the chanting of a thousand times a thousand souls, singing sweetly as they were taken to their rest.

The city around them gleamed and pulsed and soothed, and Sif could not keep her eyes from widening upon the way both mourning and reprise played through the city as a whole.

"Hel's abode is far from what the stories would say," Garmr remarked upon her wide gaze, his tone wane. "But our Queen has spent centuries making it this way – for it was not always so."

Sif could feel so many questions knot upon her tongue, but not one of them was she able to push past her lips - for they had reached the gates of Hel's abode. Éljúðnir was Hel's Hall, a tall and gleaming palace made from polished black marble, like the rest of her kingdom. In the veins of the marble, green and violet and gold played, the colors caressing and tumbling over each other like stars in the night sky. The whole of the kingdom was a reflection of the cosmos held above and below great Yggdrasil eternal, and upon seeing it as such, Sif could not imagine such a sacred and sheltered place being any other way.

They entered through the gates, and immediately a trio of shades came forth to assist them. Sif inspected the face of the spirit closest to her, and was surprised to find a young girl, who seemed to be about her age, assisting her. Even glowing in shades of icy blue and silver, Sif could see the long scar which clung to her neck – the very blow which had drawn her into Hel's hall in the first place. She took Sif's traveling cloak, while the other two took the reins of their horses, not speaking to them the whole time, even as Garmr promised the provision of their stables and grooms.

Sif found her eyes heavy upon the soul, an ache in her chest upon seeing how the girl had fallen. She had not fought, she had not struggled, or else she would have been in golden Valhalla's halls. If there was a story about the girl's demise, Sif could not find it, for the soul's eyes were pure, and her soft smile was at peace.

Sif returned the smile, but the look wavered upon her. She could not keep her unease from her eyes.

The girl bowed, and Garmr drew them forth. Into the palace they went – a grand and spacious structure held up by gleaming golden pillars, which shone next to the black rock and dark glass. Inside the pillars, tiny lights spun and danced – souls again, these ones new, just passing over the bridge, who went to the queen's abode to be weighed and judged. They pulsed, lighting the shadows, singing their song, and unconsciously, Sif felt herself echo the beat in her stride. In her breathing. She held the light of the living in her lungs, and around her, the souls pulsed in answer.

Sif, with her red leathers and dark silver armor; her black hair and dark eyes, blended into Hel's abode almost perfectly. Thor, ahead of her, and on Garmr's right, was such a light in Hel's halls, his hair gleaming like a small sun, the bright red and rich blues of him holding their color boldly, refusing to be washed out. His armor gleamed, silver and polished, like scales under a clear river. He was a light that Helheimr could not swallow, and he had never looked more out of place.

They wove their way through the halls – passing rooms and balconies and a dozen other such places. When, finally, they came to the heart of Éljúðnir.

Before two massive double doors, there were two guards – silvery and silhouetted like the other souls, but their forms were more substantial. Instead of ice for their eyes, they bore flames, and hard silver and dragon scales were clasped over their clear bodies and white bones. Guards, then, their flaming gaze a warning to the souls who would think to walk against what the Hel Queen would decree.

Sif held her head up straight, and looked the guards in the eye. They did not blink. They did not have to.

And Garmr paused before admitting them. His mouth was pursed, his eyes narrowed as he weighed his words before giving them voice. And then he said, "Our Queen is an ancient and old figure on the Great Mother's branches, and yet, she can be . . . off putting to those who have not held her in their sight before. Do not stare, and do not question her appearance – that is the quickest way to earn her displeasure."

Thor's mouth turned, his smile battle bold. "I have faced monsters before."

The corners of Garmr's lip quirked, revealing a flash of pointed teeth. "Of which she is not. There is a difference, Odinson, bear that in mind."

Sif, behind Thor, stepped forward until she could touch the back of his boot with her own. Her eyes narrowed. They were so close to gaining a cure for Loki, and she would not have his words ruin that. Not now.

Thor bowed his head. "I understand," he said humbly, and Sif fought the smile from her lips, shaped as it was in pride.

When Garmr turned to have the guards open the doors, Thor glanced back at her. His gaze challenged.

And she held it.

"Her Majesty will see you now," Garmr announced gravely.

She breathed in deep.

This was it then.

The doors did not open at the hands of the guards so much as they swung apart as if pushed by an invisible hand. They made no sound, not even a whisper from their hinges, and once again Sif had to remind herself that they stood in the heart of the world that had created magic.

Hel's hall was dark, gaping and cavernous. The ceiling was far above them, where, like the rest of the world, mist and starlight gathered. Under their feet, the glass floor was polished, and they walked upon what looked like the cosmos itself. Black ether swam, nebulae and constellations danced and spun and warred until Sif understood that they stood on the lowest part of the Yggdrasil itself. Hel's throneroom was a looking glass into time and space, and she did not hesitate to remind her visitors of that.

From the rafters, far above them, banners hung, seemingly floating in the air, illuminated by the flames that floated far above them – the only source of artificial light in the room. The banners heralded from all nine of the realms, speaking of every family and country Sif could think to name. For all served under Hel in the end, and she would not have that so soon forgotten. On the walls, the same golden pillars stood, here massive and strong, like the eternal trees of Álfheimr. In their casings, souls swam, but this time, they did not react to their living visitors. No, they pulsed in time to one beat, and one beat alone – the pulse of their Queen. Their Queen, whose breath governed the play of souls, the flashing and swirling of the cosmos below. Even behind Sif's heart, the spark which did so ignite her flickered in time with the Queen on her throne, in time with the heartbeat of mother Yggdrasil herself.

Upon seeing the Mistress of Niflheimr, Sif exhaled.

Garmr was not exaggerating when he had said that his Queen was unlike any that they had yet to meet on their travels. The woman sitting perfectly straight and still on her ebony throne was seemingly cut from glass – divided down the middle with a straight and rigid line. Her face . . . one half of her face was gnarled, cut away and reduced to nothing but muscle and bone. The skin there rotted, and where her flesh was born away, tiny veins pulsed and white bone gleamed. Her hair on that half of her face was dark grey and frail, seemingly ready to blow away with the slightest whisper. But . . . the right side of her face. The right side of her face was the most beautiful woman Sif had ever seen, with high cheekbones, and a long straight nose. Her mouth was full and voluptuous, painted a deep enough red to shine black in the sparse light. Her skin was pale, so pale, damask and seemingly spun from starlight itself. Her hair, in a counterpoint to the rest of her, was full and thick and black, gleaming like the darkest parts of space.

The strange play of living and death continued all the way down her body. The right side was living, full and perfectly formed. The left was deadened, her hand that of a skeleton, thin and white boned. She wore a black gown that folded and clenched about her waist, but like the rest of her kingdom, the black was not one shade – it was dozens of shades, swirling and playing together until, if she stood on the window to the cosmos, she would seem to be an extension of it. Over the gown, on the right side of her body, she wore golden armor – curving around her shoulders, her elbow, her stomach. But, on the left side of her, her bones had seemingly grown into a part of her costume – the sharp skeletal points reaching up and fanning out until they armed her in a macabre mirroring of her artificial finery. Her hands were heavy with emeralds – the wealth of the underworld, and golden disks were woven into her hair – both the black and the grey. On her brow, she wore a massive and elaborate headdress, golden and gleaming, flaring in three sets like the spin of a stag's antlers. They reached up and down and sideways, falling like a web of grasping things about her head, pointing to every direction and meeting nowhere.

But, no matter the play of life and death on her body, her eyes were both green. Such a bright, startling _green_ that reminded Sif of Loki so much that the gaze brought a weight to her chest. It was hard to breathe in that moment, with the eyes upon her settling as such a blow. Her eyes glowed as Loki's did when he was full of his magicks, bright and celestial and wickedly in tune with the elemental things about them. And Sif ached.

Without registering her movements, Sif took to one knee before the queen. But she did not bow her head – could not, when her gaze was snared so by the majestic woman before her. Something inside her told her not to look away – to _never_ look away, as something heavy and yearning settled about her shoulders like a cloak. She was shaking, and she could not tell herself why.

Before her, Thor had knelt as well, and he too held the Queen's stare openly. Sif settled her mouth into silence, and waited for her lord and friend to speak.

"My lady Hel," Thor began, his voice deep and respectful. "We have journeyed long, and with much peril through the ancient paths to find our way to your realm, and we wish to find your welcome and your hospitality."

"And you shall find both in my Hall," the dread lady said, her voice deep and rich, dripping with an old magic that Sif was quick to recognize. "Please, rise. You need not bow before me."

Slowly, Sif and Thor got to their feet. Still, they remained a step behind Garmr, who had yet to bow. Instead, his head was inclined respectfully, his hands folded before him. So close to his mistress, the runes on his chest and face gleamed.

"We thank-you, your Majesty," Thor inclined his head.

And Hel too stood. Gracefully, she walked down the steps of the dais her throne sat on. Unlike most ladies in their finery, the front of her skirts had been cut away, revealing long legs encased in leather and more golden and bone armor. And, as she walked, she spoke. "I have watched your journey from its beginning," she revealed, "and I am pleased that you have made it this far. Many have attempted to reach Éljúðnir over the centuries, as you can imagine – from many realms, and few have made it as far as you."

"Our determination was great due to our reasons," Thor said, his head still bowed. But his eyes had darted up, his blue eyes bright in his surroundings.

"Loki Odinson?" the name rolled from the dread queen's tongue. It held. "For your brother you have braved your way to my realm, all to save his soul?"

"Indeed," Thor said, the one word strong from his mouth. "I would travel this far and a dozen times more."

Hel held the gaze of the Thunderer, her own expression carefully blank. Carefully neutral. "And still your journey is not at its end," she said. "You seek the water of the Hvergelmir, do you not? The spring that flows from Yggdrasil's heart, and from which all of the rivers in all of the realms received their currents? Svöl, Gunnthrá, Fjörm, Fimbulthul, Leiptr and Gjöll; these and more?"

"Aye," Thor answered. "My brother was smitten by the poison of she called Anann, one of the Mórrigan daughters of war, and the poison struck at the elemental make-up of him. The waters of Múspellsheimr were not enough to save him, even though he is flame-born. The magic in him demanded water from this world, as well."

"I am familiar with Anann and her spells," Hel's mouth hooked wryly. "Even if the souls which wage war do not make it to my hall, I can feel each and every one as it departs. Anann and her sisters have taken many such seeds from mother Yggdrasil in their time. Many such seeds."

"And we would keep her from taking one more," Thor's voice struck, the feeling in it fierce.

Hel inclined her head, the massive headpiece upon her brow casting shadows. "I can show you the path to Hvergelmir," she finally said, her words sounding long and slow. "Hvergelmir resides in the darkest part of my realm – the part which is called Náströnd, where those evil and corrupt in life are sent for their final death."

"We have heard of the parts of your realm," Thor answered; he declared. "And we are ready to face Náströnd."

Hel's gaze was weighing, her words spinning behind her eyes before they reached her mouth. It was the look of one who wished to coax. Who wished to barter and deal. Sif felt her own eyes narrowing upon the dread queen, for familiar was the look to her – having been worn a hundred such times by Loki before. A hundred times by even Frigg when she had her words to weave, her secrets to whisper. The familiarity struck at her, though she knew not why.

"And so you shall," Hel finally said. Thor straightened, a look approaching relief on his face before she said, "Yet, not without a price."

For nothing was free. Sif bit her lip, and felt her ire spike as another delay was placed in their path.

Thor's eyes too were hard. "Name your price, then."

And Hel said, "In Náströnd, there is a dragon who trolls the black banks, and devours the souls which I cast there." Sif swallowed, remembering the dragon in her dreams, mad and angry, and the man who so deigned to summon him and harness his hate and flames as his own. "He has made his nest over the spring of Hvergelmir."

"Níðhöggr?" Thor spoke the name of their people's nightmare. "We have heard his name before."

"He is the one," Hel confirmed. "He was imprisoned in my realm by your own father when Odin received the vision of Ragnarök from the Norn sisters. Yggdrasil listened to her king's commands, and wrapped her roots around Níðhöggr's nest. What once was merely a black stain in Níðhöggr's heart is now a cancer, warped and evil. His centuries of imprisonment have driven him mad, and his flames not only threaten my kingdom, but the whole of the World Tree herself. If you wish to draw from the spring, it is Níðhöggr's heart which you must bring back to me. No longer will he stand poised to take a soul not yet of the dead and condemned."

Thor's eyes flashed. "We have slain dragons before."

And Hel's gaze was long. Considering. "Indeed you have. But none of Níðhöggr's madness. None of Níðhöggr's fury. This is no normal wyrm you seek to slay."

"For my brother's soul," Thor declared, "I will bring you Níðhöggr's heart. You have my word."

Hel's gaze was seiðr bright. Steel forged and unrelenting. Finally, the deadened lines about her face relaxed. She did not smile, but the corners of her lips did turn. "Indeed, I believe I do."

Raising her skeletal hand, she held out her palm, and out of mist and smoke, a rolled oil skin appeared. She reached out her living hand, and passed the scroll to Thor.

Thor raised a brow, and opened the oilskin, tilting it so that Sif could see as well. Scribbled in dark red ink was the way through Náströnd, on to Niðhöggr's own nest. And then, its name written in graceful and spinning runes, was Hvergelmir. Sif felt her own smile hook, sharp and cut from her face upon seeing so. She reached over and touched the name. The ink popped and sparked against her touch; a promise.

"That is the way to Níðhöggr and Hvergelmir," Hel said. "My souls are ordered to touch you not, but there are other things in my realm which may make your journey hard. Return with Níðhöggr's heart, and the water you so need, and then I shall see that you are returned to Asgard without a stain of my world remaining on your souls."

Thor bowed his head. "We thank-you, milady Queen."

Hel waved her hand, this one the one of living flesh and bone. "Ganglati. Ganglöt." At her call, two shades came forth, splitting from the shadows to come and bow before their queen. "It will be night in my realm soon, and if there is one thing you wish not to do, it is to take on the perils of Náströnd after the day has fled. Please, take rest in my Hall tonight, and start your journey at first light."

Sif felt Thor's hesitation as her own. Already they had spent so much time away . . .

Hel saw their traded look. In answer she said, her words soft, "I can feel your brother's soul." Her eye's fluttered closed, seeing past what they could. "Still it is a spark to my senses. You have time," she assured, her voice surprisingly compassionate for one who had seen so very much of death. So very much of strife. "Not much. But you have time enough to take a night to rest."

"Then," Thor's voice wavered, the emotion within it thick, "we accept the offer of your hospitality."

Hel inclined her head. "I am glad."

Again Thor bowed, and Sif mirrored him. Hel's gaze turned from Thor, and when it fell in turn, it was long upon her. Searching, Sif almost found it to be. But it did not burden her. Reflected in the other's gaze, she almost imagined that she saw the same curiosity that defined her own stare.

"Besides, something tells me that you rested but little while in Mara's care," Hel's voice turned cheekily, a sly and subtle humor in her voice that Sif instinctively found herself turning towards. "It would be best to face Náströnd with a fresh mind and sharp eyes."

Thor snorted ruefully. "Aye, indeed it would be."

Hel smirked, before turning to Garmr and the shades. "Please, show our guests to where they can rest, and see that they are fed. Tomorrow morn, they have a dragon to slay."

.

.

The quarters within Éljúðnir were as grand as the rest of the palace was. The walls were black and gleaming, and the space of the room was dominated by a plush bed topped with furs and pillows stuffed with feathers. On the cold floor, the black marble was covered by a massive white fur rugs; so thick and soft that Sif immediately took off her boots in order to feel the texture of it under her feet. In the corner of the room opposite the hearth, there was an inset pool for bathing, the water within eternally warm and clear. Sif took use of that, and while she did so, a shade - Ganglati? she guessed - slipped forth without her call in order to take her armor away – to clean it, Sif hoped, for the shade said nothing aloud. At the very least, she was pretty sure that she would have it returned by the morning.

After bathing, she donned a simple tunic and leggings to sleep, and twisted her wet hair in a knot at the base of her neck. While she dressed for the night, Ganglati again brought food from Hel's kitchen, but Sif did not partake in the food of the ninth realm. Instead, she took out what remained of their trail rations, and took to supping on that as she looked over the map that Hel had gifted to them. Carefully she began to chart out a path through Náströnd, trying to decide what would be the quickest and safest way to Hvergelmir, and the healing waters which awaited them there.

It was like this that Thor found her some time later. His quarters were separated from her own by only an ebony door, and he knocked briefly before entering. He still wore his armor, and his hair was slick and grainy with the mire of the caverns and the water of Mara's pools. He had not taken time to ready himself for the night.

Sif raised a brow at his appearance. "Have you been pacing this entire time?" she asked, her tone teasing.

"More or less," Thor waved her question away, his voice aloft, even as his cheeks flushed pink. "This place unsettles me," he admitted, "and I cannot seem to find my rest."

Sif turned her head at that, and wondered why Helheimr seemed to embrace her so, for she had felt not a moment's discomfort while taking her rest. Just as quickly, she turned the thought away – telling herself that it was just her own pragmatism that made it so. One took provisions where one could find them. Nothing more, and nothing less.

And speaking of . . .

"Here, sit down and have something to eat," she said, patting the edge of her bed. "It will do neither us - nor Loki, any good if you are to pass out from not taking care of yourself when we go up against the dragon."

Thor snorted, and eyed the food of Hel which Sif had ignored in favor of her own.

"Garmr insisted that the food was brought in fresh," Thor said. "But, there have been too many tales told of the underworld and its food."

Sif snorted ruefully. "I agree," she said, holding her pouch of dried meat up to Thor. "Here, I've already had my fill." She tossed the meat to him.

He caught the pouch. His smile turned, before he gestured to the canister she still held by her side. She rolled her own eyes, before passing the ale over to him too.

He ate thoughtfully while Sif continued to look at the map. His eyes slipped over her chamber – the ornate furs, the polished walls, and the hanging tapestries - the fire that burned warmly in its hearth. He then said, "I would never have imagined Helheimr to be as it is."

Sif glanced about, her gaze turning. "It is a kingdom unto itself," she agreed.

And Thor leaned back, considering. "If I was asked what kind of bed Hel used just mere days ago, I would have called her bed Sickness. Her knife Hunger. Her table Strife."

Sif placed her map aside, finally done for the night. For a moment she was silent as she fell back into the furs that layered the bed. They caught her, and willingly she drowned "That's because you and Fandral were too busy going on with your own stories while Master Eldgrim gave his lectures."

Thor snorted. "Hel's three legged horse, and the broom she used to sweep mortals away during a pestilence or a famine was a great tale," he defended. "Epically so."

"Worthy of a bard," Sif agreed absently, hugging one of the pillows to her chest and sweeping her other arm underneath the one she had her head on. After so many nights of her saddle for her pillow and the hard ground for her bed, she was not one to turn down a bit of luxury.

Thor, though, was still stiff on the edge of her bed. His armor gleamed dully. His face was furrowed.

"We shall be returning home by tomorrow eve," she spoke were she saw him pained. Ever easy was Thor to read, and this before her was no exception. "Stay your heavy thoughts, and find some rest. Níðhöggr shall be no easy foe."

"I know," Thor said, his tone soft.

Still his gaze pulled.

So Sif reached out and settled her palm against his shoulder. His armor was cold under her hand, but still it did not guard his heart. "We shall return to Loki his breath," she vowed. "This is a truth. Treat it as such."

Thor's gaze was weighing. She held it. "This dragon . . . he is to be our people's end. Do you understand what it shall mean for prophesy should we do this? It is much Hel asks of us, and the Nornir have already wrote Níðhöggr's fate as he who burns Yggdrasil alive. We are not fated to succeed."

And Sif felt her determination burn, fierce and bright. They were the same fates who said that she was meant for bride and hearth tender. The same fates who said that Loki had no place amongst Asgard with his magicks. Sif had spent her entire life spitting in the face of that which was already written – and this would be no different.

"I dare the Nornir to try to take this ending away from me," was what she said. "From you. We have faced many a foe when it was said we could not emerge the victor. And here we are, still standing where so many others have fallen. The future holds so much in store for you – for Loki. Your endings will not be told by a paltry vial of poison, and a mad dragon."

"If we do succeed then," still Thor tried to make the thought work in his mind.

"When we succeed," Sif interrupted fiercely.

"When we succeed," Thor conceded. " . . . what will that mean for prophesy?"

And at that, she smiled. "It means, that someday, even the Twilight will be something we can face, and come out of triumphant."

Thor snorted ruefully. "I hope you are right, my friend. I hope you are right."

"As do I," Sif said, her voice turning down at the edges. Her hand fell away from Thor's shoulder.

He stood, placing down the empty pouch, and her equally empty canteen. She made a face when she saw that he had saved none of the drink for her.

And then flopped back down, effectively shooing him away. She flicked her hand dismissively. "Now leave me be. You smell enough to wake the dead around us, and I shall not travel with you upon the morning hour if you do not bathe tonight."

Finally, that drew a laugh from her friend. "I shall bathe then, in fear of offending your lady like sensibilities," Thor declared, his bow low and mocking.

She gave an indignant squawk of a noise. "Ladylike sensibilities? To expect my companion to be clean when he can be so?"

"Indeed," Thor nodded solemnly. "Next thing you know, you will be lamenting dirt under your nails and blood upon your skin."

Sif held up a pillow threateningly. "Shall I show you what I think of a maiden's graces?"

Thor ignored her, and continued. "You will trade in your armor for fine dresses, and moan when a sudden breeze throws even one hair out of its place -"

And well, she had warned him. She threw her one pillow, which he blocked with an arm. "Of the two of us, I am not the one so concerned over my golden tresses," she hissed in return. No, that had always been Thor's secret vanity.

"Oh yes, now I remember," Thor carried on. "You were the one who managed to convince my brother to shave your head completely – I forgot. Now, how fetching you look with your black hair – such a dirty shade you now favor, fitting for a woman doing a man's work." His tone mocked.

At the comment (one which had one time sent her cheeks burning as Sigyn's dainty laughter delivered the insult), she felt her laughter bloom in her throat, long and rusty from disuse. Still she aimed another pillow, but the blow she threw at him hit the door as he retreated. His laughter still echoed for a minute more from behind the closed way, and Sif rolled her eyes at her friend's antics.

Shaking her head, she once again she laid down to sleep.

.

.

And in the Hall of the half-alive Queen, Sif dreamed.

She dreamed that she was older, with her hair tied back in a matron's braid, and wearing not armor nor leather, but instead a woman's kirtle and hangerok. The undermost gown was soft and silver, made from the finest of fibers for one who had married into the house of Odin. The hangerok over the first layer was a deep and metallic shade of silvered red, shimmering like wine. She had oiled her hair to make it shine, and about her head she wore a thin silver diadem to denote her place amongst her people. Over her sleeves, she had winding silver bands set high upon her arms, spun into the shape of a snake. The gown she wore was her best one, and the look upon her face was her strongest one – meant for battles and dire, desperate things.

At her side, her husband did not wear his ceremonial garb – for such things were not made for such journeys. But he still wore his best, with his black leathers thick and strong, and his gold and green armor peaking out and shining – polished to gleam. He wore his hair longer than he did in the time they lived, black and gleaming from where it was gathered into a long tail at the base of his neck. Unlike many of Asgard's men, his face was still cleanly shaven, looking both youthful and bright in the half light of the world around them. He too wore a look more made for the battlefield upon his face. The flash of seiðr was a light in his eyes, a threat made for anyone who knew how to look.

And in Sif's arms, she held a bundle, a soft and small thing, tender and sleeping. A daughter, new to the world around her, with dark hair already dusting the crown of her head, and eyes that would be green – so incredibly green were she to blink. She slept as her mother walked, curled towards the heat that Sif gave off. She was swathed in golden fabric, the same of which Frigg had woven to cover both Thor and Loki in their infancy. The symbols of Odin's house gleamed on the fabric, a warning in of itself. Even in the dream, the child in her arms fit as if made to do so; and Sif had never felt more comfortable carrying anything else – not even sword or shield or dagger. The child in her arms was her great fight then, the husband at her side her shield and sword as they stood ready to take their arms.

The dream took place in a sheltered place. Around them was a forest – thick and green and primordial. Where the wood huddled together to form a concealed area, there was a well. The Well of Urðr, Sif recognized the runes etched into the face of it – a legendary thing to her people, whose very wood was made from the bark of Yggdrasil herself, its depths reaching all the way through the Great Mother to pierce the Ginnungagap below. Before the well sat the three Norn sisters, the fates who so governed the nine realms by their weaving.

The three sisters were Jötunn woman, snatched from the womb of creation when Yggdrasil was young, right before the Ancients had granted power to Bor Firstfather, whose family had governed Asgard and the nine realms from the beginning of time to where they were now.

Each sister saw one part of time – the past, the present, the future; and they were blind to anything but for their visions. Their fiery eyes were glazed over when Sif and Loki looked upon them, unseeing and blank. Together they weaved the destiny of all – their web stretched from east to west before their well, from whose depths they drew their thread. Their web was massive, silvered and shining, with millions upon millions of tiny lights dancing upon the gossamer strands – each light being symbolic for one of Yggdrasil's children. Eternally they crissed and crossed the lines, and by doing so, they did decide the future for all.

It was tradition amongst the foremost realms to bring ones child to the sisters for that child to receive its name and riddles for its future, and Sif had had to argue with her husband long and bitterly in order to see that the tradition upheld. She had no fond regards for the mistresses of Fate, but neither would she see their anger turned upon them. She would not see their slight play out bitterly for her daughter's future.

 _Her daughter_ , small and tiny in her hands, whom Sif now held tighter as her husband invoked the Nornir.

"Loki Odinson," Verðandi, the past, greeted.

"Sif Lokisbride," Urðr, the present, greeted as well.

"And your daughter," said Skuld, the most aware of the three, for already Urðr had looked away from them, the present passed. And Verðandi continued to silently weave, lost to what was behind.

Loki stood stiff and rigid before the Nornir and their well. Their eternal weaving never paused. Never ceased. And he said, "We have come to see the child's name told. If you would be so kind as to draw it from your well." His tone was imperious, a shield for the worry Sif could see clearly in his eyes.

She held her daughter tighter. Tiny fingers curled about her own in responce, strong even in her sleep.

"Long have we seen you coming," Verðandi remarked.

"And now you are here," Urðr added.

"For what will be," Skuld concluded. "Please, take a seat. Rest your feet, and drink from our well."

Loki was still for a moment before glancing to his wife. Sif nodded her head, and moved to take her seat on one of the stones that circled the Norn's clearing. Urðr was the one to give them each a chalice of water, while Skuld was the one to kneel before the child, her giantess' hands soft and gentle upon the babe's delicate skin.

Her thin lips stretched into a smile. It caught.

"A strong babe, born to strong parents," Verðandi said from past them as she wove. For that had already passed. "Hale and whole of heart and health."

"And for a name to match, we must weave," Urðr said, for that was to happen now. She passed over a pair of silver sheers to her sister upon saying so. Skuld took the shears, and inclined her head.

Sif unbraided her hair. Besides her, Loki took the tie restraining his own. When they had finished, Skuld's hands were quick as she took three strands each from Sif, and then from Loki. Three strands from their daughter then, as well, the strands tiny and delicate.

Skuld took the offerings, and sat again before the web. She handed one of each strand to each of her sisters, and then kept a set for her own. Diligently, their hands delicate and quick, they began to weave the strands – their web glowed, accepting the new additions as they added what was not there before into the vast web of fate. She criss and crossed the lines with other lines, other lives. Here and there she cut lines completely – took them away. Quicker and quicker their fingers spun. Quicker and quicker did their prophesies flow.

And Skuld, the future, said with her blind eyes bright, "You hold a child mighty in name, known the nine realms wide for _endings_."

Sif stiffened. Loki moved a hand over to grasp her hand. He held it tight.

"None are the endings she will cause – but those she will protect once gone. Those she will nurture once lost. To your daughter will belong power over the last lines. The final day, as well."

 _Riddles, always riddles_ , Sif thought. At her side, Loki listened, his brow furrowing.

"The Twilight shall come," Skuld continued, "and all will fall. But not, if for the sacrifice of one."

"Long has the line of Bor repressed where it should have nurtured," Verðandi said. "The Ancients, those who created all, will not let that line continue on for much longer."

"Cleanse itself, it shall," Urðr said. "Like the fires to a forest."

"But should they see the hope of one. The selflessness of one . . ." Skuld continued. "To the ninth realm shall the child of two worlds go. To the ninth realm she will reign, and with that power, all who will fall in the Twilight's golden hour shall rise up again to life anew."

"Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse," Urðr sung.

"Fire to smoke and forest to ash," Verðandi wove her voice with her sister's.

"Death," Skuld hissed the words. "Never her own fate, but her control over the fates of other. Your daughter shall hold Helheimr as her own, and take up her reign and right to rule. Return to the beginning of time she shall, and live life twice in order to complete our web. All shall live where once all have died."

At the words, Sif held her daughter tighter, her mouth open as the Nornir spun a future she could not even begin to comprehend – of all the things she had feared, she had not even . . . In her mother's hold, the child had opened her eyes, her green eyes bright, so very bright . . .

By her side, Loki had stood, his eyes filled with anger – not nearly as sedate as his wife. His closed fists trembled. "No," he said, the one word a command – as if just his words and power could change what the fates decreed as absolute. Around them, the clearing had darkened, the trees above rattled as if thrown by a great wind. The horizon had turned cold. Magic rattled in his veins, and the land responded.

Skuld merely looked up blindly. "She will save us all. Save what once was turned to flame by your folly. In that other time, the first time. In the time when you did not come back. When you set the Great Mother aflame with the hate in your eyes. Now, will you stand by your golden brother's side? Will you fight against the Ancient's decree? Fight and die and yet live again – cleansed as through fire. Made pure through fire. All for the girl-child in your arms."

"She," and the word in Loki's mouth was a caress, "will not fall for my mistakes. Give me her place – I shall descend to the ninth realm for her . . . Power over the dead, it is nothing one person – an innocent one should be cursed with."

"But her innocence gives her the purity needed to judge," said Skuld.

"You too long have let the darkness win," Urðr added.

"Not anymore," Loki insisted. "And I don't accept this. We never have. The futures are always turning – _always_ , and we will not abide by this one."

"No choice," Urðr said.

"Already written," Verðandi added.

"And for the best," Skuld concluded.

"The best for whom?" and then Loki thundered. "With everyone your prophesies have touched – the lengths that have been taken to alter them and write those anew – more harm has been done than good. More pain than healing."

"Scars burn when closing. When healing," Urðr said.

"They always have," Verðandi added.

"And they always will," Skuld concluded.

"Not while I live," and here, Loki vowed.

"You have never been the one who follows our words," Urðr said.

"But He shall," Verðandi pointed out.

And Skuld decreed, "The Allfather shall do what is best for his realm. And to the ninth realm, its Queen shall go." Her voice was final.

In Sif's arms, her daughter began to cry. She tried to sooth and shush the child while her husband and the Nornir spoke – each delivering their blows. In Loki's shadow, she ran her hand softly over her child's hair. Still she stood at Skuld's last declaration, the war on her face hot and harsh.

"I dare him to touch one hair on the girl's head," and for the first Sif spoke, her teeth bared, ready to tear flesh and render it asunder. Too long had fists been closed tight around what she did call her own. No more. Never again.

Still her daughter cried. Loki glanced at them, and when the child would not quiet, he took his daughter from her. As always, the child fell silent at his touch, her smile full and rounded when she was in her father's hold. He had taken to parenthood as he had to his spells, Sif had long thought with pride, and to now know that their time was already counted. Already numbered . . .

"Always for the best, he thinks he moves," Urðr said.

"Always will he, as well," Verðandi added.

And Skuld said, her blind eyes aflame, "Do you wish to know your daughter's name?"

And Sif, besides Loki, turned her face up to meet their future.

"Your daughter, her name . . ."

Loki held her daughter closer. He had one arm about the child, and his other hand came to find hers – always was he standing as both sword and shield before her. Always would she too stand as vanguard for what she held dearest to her.

"Her name . . ."

.

.

"Sif."

Her name was being spoken.

Distantly, as if trying to surface from a great depth, she awakened.

"Milady Sif," there was a soft hand at her shoulder, rousing her from her dreams.

Sif blinked, and slowly the world around her came into focus. She saw shadows – her room in Éljúðnir, she remembered as awareness came back to her. In the hearth, embers still burned, casting a faint, warm light on the room. There was a weight dipping on the bed where another being had settled; soft and slight.

Fully awake, Sif snapped to attention when she registered the presence of another, coming to sit upright in her bed with her pulse speeding as if anticipating an attack. But there was no assailant with her; no ghoul or dark and fiendish thing. There was just Hel herself, regarding her with a wry smile that pulled up the dead corner of her lips.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to startle you," said the dread queen, and Sif shook her head, as if trying to understand why the other woman was in her chambers. Her hands clenched, but she had no weapon by her side. No reason to use it yet, anyway, not that she saw . . .

Hel must have seen the question in her eyes, for next she said, "I heard you," in a soft voice. "You dreamed, and you did not dream well."

Sif held a hand to her head, where she did indeed feel a tightening behind her temples. A weight pushing against her eyes. She had dreamed . . .

"Dreams in my realm are odd things," Hel continued. "Time moves differently here – it pools and collects as the ocean through a seashell, and the living can see visions, if that is the correct labeling for such things. They see things which have happened. Things which may still happen. Things which may never happen. Most of the time, it is not a pleasant experience."

Still Sif cradled her head. She had dreamed . . . "I don't remember what I saw," she confessed, her voice frustrated. For such a fear she had felt there in. Such a fear, and such a love . . . such a devotion. "It was not a memory," she knew that much. "It was something else . . ."

"That which is to come, then," Hel said quietly. "Or what never was."

"It must have been," Sif said, lowering her hand to look at the other woman curiously. Here she was, sitting with the Mistress of Niflheimr, and telling her of her foul dreams. The other woman had shedded her courtly finery – her headpiece was gone, and her voluminous robes had been traded for a simple black gown, which still shone with the same fabric as the other. "I thank-you," she said then, her voice slipping into something more formal. "For waking me."

Hel's grin slipped. It was sharp. "I do not sleep much, I'm afraid. Restless souls, and all that. I am sorry if I startled you further, though."

Sif shook her head, "No, you did not startle me." She held the other's gaze curiously.

Hel stood then, and tilted her head, her eyes considering. Sif tilted her chin up, and let the other look unhindered, knowing that she was being weighed with criteria that was past her knowledge.

"If you find that sleep shall be elusive to you for much longer," Hel said carefully, "would you like to come with me? There is something that I would like to show you."

Sif considered the request, searching for a threat and finding none. The same easiness she had felt from the moment she had entered Helheimr returned. It embraced her. And she said, "Yes."

The dread queen nodded. "Well then," and she inclined her head towards the door.

Sif kicked the covers away, and paused only to pull on her boots over her leggings. Hel waited patiently for her by the door all the while. When she was ready, they slipped into Éljúðnir's dark halls. Sif followed closely at Hel's heels, hearing the night-song that the souls sung in the air. It was a haunting melody, one that played at her skin, and pooled next to her heart.

She followed Hel back to the throneroom, but this time, they disappeared through a small door behind Hel's throne . . . and they emerged in a place that Sif had only ever heard about in legends.

The Chamber of Souls.

The chamber was a circular room, held up by nine golden columns, and ringed with black marble stairs that seemed to lead down into a pool of stars. The stars - souls, Sif reminded herself, pooled towards Hel as soon as she entered, as if pulled by the gravity of her. On the steps, there was a scale – the weights and balances what would have been used to judge a soul's final resting place.

"I come here often when I can't sleep," Hel admitted to her, her voice a whisper. "The souls sing, even if they are black at heart, and their song lulls me."

Indeed, the swirl and pulse of the room was something infinite. Something timeless that made Sif's eyes feel heavy. Her heart pulsed, slow and steady in time to the song – a mother's lullaby that had survived from the times of creation.

Gracefully, Hel descended down into the pool of souls. They clung to her black dress and her dark hair until it looked as if she were the night sky, adorned by her stars, as she searched through the souls until she found the one she which she sought – a soul that shone green and verdant in the palm of her hand. A soul whose light flickered. It waned, and yet, in the hand of Hel, its light was that much stronger. It gleamed that much brighter.

Sif, who had not dared to enter the sea of stars, descended to the bottom most step, and waited. Hel waded back over to her, and took a seat upon the steps, gesturing for Sif to do the same.

"This soul is his," said she.

_His._

Sif did not need to ask, she knew already that the soul was Loki's. With trembling hands, Sif reached out and took the soul when Hel offered it to her.

 _Loki's soul_ , she tried to wrap her mind around the concept. She was holding _Loki's soul_ in her hands. In the most literal of ways.

It looked to be nothing more than a small orb of light, but it blazed like a small sun in her hands, iridescent and brilliant. The tips of its flames were green, pulsing and living and breathing at her touch. It flashed brighter the longer she held it, and a far off, deeply hidden part of her hoped that the soul recognized her. Hoped that it knew that one who did adore him held him as her own.

She breathed in deep with her wonder. Her breath caught.

"I knew of what you dreamed," Hel said. "It is impossible for me not to. Not here. Not in the heart of my realm. And I wanted to show you, that even where light wanes, still it shines."

The tales Sif had heard of death did not fit the one she was having rewrite before her; this did not fit with the truths she had thought to hold as absolute. She only knew stories, and now before her, the reality of Helheimr and its mistress turned at her mind.

"In looking through the eyes of these souls I have seen every black deed," Hel said then, answering the question in her eyes, "but, I have also seen every beautiful act. I have seen kindness, selflessness, love and hate and saints and martyrs and sinners all. I have lived as a father, and as a mother. As son and daughter. As husband and wife. As friend and monarch and monster and villain. Each life has been mine to live. And through them, lived I have."

"How did you come to be in this place?" Sif finally asked, waving her hand in an all encompassing gesture around them.

"Honestly, through decree of Odin," Hel answered in the simplest way there was.

Sif's brow furrowed, confused. "I do not understand," she finally said. "I have studied his reign – have lived for a great deal of it, and I remember no such decree."

"That is because it is still one to come," Hel said. "I am born centuries later than when you now live, and thanks to the Nornir and their words, Odin will cast me to the beginning of time in order to nurture every soul who has died since the Great Beginning. Yggdrasil cast an empty role in the cosmos, and it was his duty to fill it. For prophesy. For all of us."

"That is . . . a story that stretches the mind," Sif finally said, unsure of how to phrase her thoughts. Her mind swam under the weight of magic and time and its mysteries.

"I have become used to it," Hel shrugged, the souls clinging to her shining. "And I have taken to it well enough."

The weight of the souls, and the nothingness of Helheimr . . . "It is a great burden to carry," still Sif said, her heart turning with pain, though she knew not why.

"In the beginning, it was," Hel said ruefully. "When I first came here, this land looked to be like every horror story the men of Earth like to tell. The land burned. It was dark and cruel and unforgiving. And I was very young when I was cast here – not even your age, and I did find my task to be overwhelming at the time."

That same blade in her chest turned. It sickened. "I can only imagine," she whispered. The dark of Niflheimr. Nothing but the storms and beasts like Mara to keep her company, and the silent souls with their dead eyes . . .

"But the longer I stayed here, the more clearly I could hear the same song you hear now," Hel said. "I began to build a kingdom here – with Garmr's help, who was but a wolf growling at the souls when I first came. He took the form of a man in order to teach to me my powers – for, indeed, I was created with Niflheimr in my heart. The land embraced me, and I became one with it." She gestured to the decaying half of her body. "This came with time, as well, as my kindredness with the land grew. The next time I saw they who had begotten me, and he who had banished me, I was already one with my realm. The Nornir had not woven a false prophesy."

Sif snorted ruefully. "I do not know if I would be able to hold on to your views."

"I have had centuries to come to terms with them," Hel's voice peaked with amusement, but she did not laugh. "I protect the souls, I serve the realm, and I fight against the onset of prophesy – as do we all."

Around them, time continued to swirl on. Before them the souls danced, and in her palm, Loki's own soul cast such a light. "Why do you tell me this?" Sif finally asked. "The secrets of Helheimr have always been many, and I am merely a shield-maiden waylaid to your land by a quest."

And Hel considered for a moment, her eyes hooded. Even on the deadened side of her face, her lashes were long and full. "Because," she finally whispered, "I want you to understand what you fight for tomorrow. I want you to see all that the dragon seeks to destroy – in every realm." She gestured to the sea of stars before them, every life in every realm tumbling over each other in an eternal dance.

"I . . ." and Sif's voice faltered. It fell. "I thank-you for this honor," she finally said, although she wanted to say so much more. Sif, who normally was such a blade, wanted to sooth and make sure with her words – she wanted to know if the other woman was happy. Wanted to see her skin alive and whole again. She ached with the pain of the dread queen, and she could not tell herself _why_.

"The honor is mine," said the Queen, and gently, she took Loki's soul back from Sif. Sif, who did not know how much harm it did to the soul to be held by living hands, passed it back without protest, feeling oddly cold in the absence of the light he had cast.

Slowly, Sif once again got to her feet. Once standing, she cast a last look at the sea of souls. The tide of them called to her, as if they wished to pull her in. Unconsciously, she leaned towards them.

And Hel saw her gaze. "You may leave now," she said softly. "It is not a healthy place for the living to be for too long – not if you value your soul within your body still." Her smile was a half smirk, and at the shape of it, Sif felt her eyes searching.

She _knew_ that shape . . . but she could not put her finger on it.

Hel waved a hand, and a shade split away from the shadows. "Here," she said. "If you do not remember the way back to your room, Ganglati shall lead you. The dawn comes within hours, and the dragon awaits."

Didn't it always?

Sif shook her head at the reminder, and willed her odd thoughts away. When she turned to say her goodbyes to the Queen, the other woman had already forgotten her, lost as she stared at the verdant flame in her hand. And from its depths she did not look away for a long, long time.

.

.

From the shadows, Garmr Helhound did not emerge until the shield-maiden was gone.

Hel was still staring down at the soul in her hand past when Sif had left. It flickered at her touch. It waned. But it did not go out. Not yet.

She did not look up as Garmr sat down beside her. Caressing the soul with the first bone finger on her left hand, she said, "I did not realize how much I had missed her."

Garmr smiled gently, the expression meant to comfort. "Indeed," he agreed, his voice soft. "You two hold five glowers in common. And at least three smirks. A smile, as well, I think."

Hel snorted, the sound sharp. "I learned well at her side, did I not?"

"You are far from the coltish little girl wandering around lost in the wastes," Garmr agreed. "I thank them both for the spirit they begot you with – no one else would have been able to stand up to your post as you did. Create a kingdom as you did." He lifted his hands, encompassing Éljúðnir, and Helheimr all around them.

"With your help," Hel added, finally turning to him, her gaze warm. "I thank the fates that I was not left alone here. And I even thank them for what once was my curse, for I should not have found you if I stayed at my parent's side. If I never left the first realm."

"It is a selfish wish, having you here where you may have known a life amongst the living -"

" - but all are served this way," Hel's mouth turned ruefully. "In the end, it is a small price to pay." She reached over and rested her hand on his shoulder, her deadened fingers were a contrast to his healthy, full skin. Her living hand, he reached over to hold within his own. "Now," she said softly, "was Ivaldi able to fulfill my request?"

"Yes," Garmr nodded. "He was a hard soul to track down, especially when I told him what task he was to fulfill, but in the end, it was anything for Lady Hel . . ."

Hel raised a brow. "How silver you are with your words," she said slyly, her green eyes bright.

"I simply know the power of names," Garmr shrugged, his eyes turning wickedly as he reached over to undo the scabbard from his belt. He handed her the sword that was sheathed within – forged at her command, for Garmr was never one to use steel where his claws would do.

She took the sword from him; the handle made of silver and dark leather, the blade made of the darkest steel. The sword sparked at her touch, holding lightning within its depths. Once was, the metal that had been melted down to form the blade had held the very power of the storms themselves. Now, it would once again be the thing that delivered them from Níðhöggr's fiery breath.

The tip of her finger turned. It was a caress.

"And now it is a dangerous game you do play," Garmr said softly, his voice worried. "Unweaving what the Nornir have already woven as true . . ."

Hel took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. In that first future, she had taken her post at Niflheimr's gates so that the Ancient's fury would allow all to be reborn after Ragnarök's fury. Now, she had stood watch from the beginning of time, and she stood at the crossroads of Ragnarök coming again. She had already seen the Yggdrasil torn apart by flames once, and now, that would not be a future she would live through again.

And if she could tear one part of prophesy asunder today . . .

"No longer shall the fate of my souls be one of fire and ash and pain," Hel said, her voice as heavy with the future as Skuld's could ever hope to be.

Finally, she let the verdant soul go from her hand. It rejoined the dance of the stars before her, and she watched it.

Until, she spied the other soul whose actions had caught her attention. She picked up the dark and decaying orb of light – a black hole in a sea of stars. She pressed two sharp nails into the orb of light. It did not writhe in pain, but in anger. In her hand, the dragon roared.

And Hel looked on without mercy. "And pray, Níðhöggr, that I so have mercy upon your soul."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ginnungagap** : Literally means 'yawning void'. This was the chaos that the universe was created from.
> 
>  **Ganglati and Ganglöt** : Hel's two servants in the myths, their names both meaning 'lazy walker'.
> 
>  **Kirtle and hangerok** : A Viking form of clothing for women, the 'apron dress', or 'hanging dress', which consisted of a first layer of fabric - a smock like dress, and then a hanging tunic like piece called the hangerok - whose straps were normally fixed with broaches or some other ornamentation.
> 
>  **Hel** : My Hel (Hel when spoken formally, Hela when within the family) is quite different from Marvel's version of Hela, and the myths, too actually. Her being half dead and half alive I took from the myths, and her role in guiding the dead who did not die in war are too from the myths. Pretty much everything else is just my own imagination and artistic liberty.
> 
>  **Hel's Domain** : Is only explained as being dark and gloomy in the myths. Marvel often showed Helheimr to mirror the Christian version of Hell. Neither really suited me or my plans, and so, once again, artistic liberty was taken.
> 
>  **Thor's Stories about Hel** : Were actually straight from the myths. Hel's bed was Sickness, her dish Hunger, her knife was Famine. And she did have a three legged horse she would ride through the land and sweep the dead away during a famine or outbreak of pestilence.
> 
>  **Hel as Sif's Daughter** : I briefly touched at this in my drabble series "Harken Forth", but this is the much larger expansion/explanation. In the myths, Hel was Angrboða's daughter, and part of the three monsters Loki spawned. But, since I already wrote Jörmungandr as a more cosmic entity than anything else, and then replaced Fenrir with Garmr, I figured that this too could turn to putty in my hands.
> 
>  **Sif's Dream** : It was indeed customary to have a Norn tell the future of your child at their birth. I added in the Norns picking the names, as well. Once again, prophesy is an interesting entity to play with.
> 
>  **Ivaldi** : Father of the dwarfs Brokkr and Sindri, who forged Mjölnir and Gungnir and a dozen other things in the myths.


	12. those whose breath burns hot

In the dark of Niflheimr's heart, the shield-maiden was not the only one to dream.

In Thor's dreams, he once again walked through the land that belonged to the Mórrigan. And yet, it was not a path familiar to him which he followed. This was not the land he had quested through just days before. Instead the world around him was thick and primordial. He followed a way not set by the feet of men, but rather a thin trail in the underbrush; a deer trail, delicate and winding. Before him on the path, a hunting party marched. Where Thor's steps were that of a ghost - the dream allowing him in only as a silent observer to his surroundings - the rows of Aesir soldiers before him thundered with their steps. Their bronze armor gleamed in the hushed light, and their yellow cloaks danced as flames against the deep forest shadows.

Thor made his way through the ranks, slipping without being seen, slipping with a step that bore no sound. When he made his way to the first row, he stopped and saw the Mórrigan at the battalion's head. The daughters of war were quite as Thor remembered them, all pale and wan with flame colored hair. Anann tan herder's garb made her a focal point in the dense brush. She wore no armor, but the simple garb made her seem even more dangerous for it. Macha too wore earthen tones, but hers were the warm brown leathers of a cavalry soldier. Her armor was matte, it did not gleam as that of the Aesir behind her. Still, it was clean and polished, showing where a careful hand had been applied in keeping it so. Badb was as he remembered, her skin cadaverous, her hair such a dark shade of red it seemed to be black. Her strong and thick frame was covered by plates of charcoal grey steel, draping her in black until she flickered as a shadow. The light that did shine upon her was seemingly swallowed by her eyes, empty and hollow, shaped to be wells rather than mirrors.

Thor watched the Mórrigan as they marched, but it was the two men who walked with them who captured his attention, and held it.

The man ahead on the trail, and to Anann's right was a warrior whom Thor had only seen depicted in the Hall of the Fallen. His golden image still nodded gravely to the youngest ranks of warriors as they marched by on the way to the training rings. But it was just a portrait who smiled at he and every other who passed. It was just a likeness Thor knew, not a real man of flesh and bone – Lord Týr, the man Midgard knew simply as War. Thor recognized his visage not only from the stories told of his great deeds, but from the reflection of Sif's strong brow and sharp gaze. Týr passed his battle axe from hand to hand with a liquid grace that Thor knew acutely from Sif, as well. And then, there was the way his armor fit over him like a second skin, the way the battle flashed in his eyes as if it were drawn forth from his very bones . . .

Thor observed the man, and felt a part of himself ache. From what Sif had said, Lady Gná had done her utmost to preserve the memory of her father to her, but stories and fire side tales could only do so much. At the thought, Thor tried to imagine his path had it been only Frigg herself leading his way. How his life would have been without his lord father there to guide his step . . . It was something he could not comprehend, even in the most abstract of ways.

Týr smiled, and looked to his left. And there was Thor's own father, centuries younger than he knew Odin now to be. Odin's hair was still a dark shade of earthen gold – like the fields before they surrendered to winter, rather than the shade of silver grey Thor knew it now to be. The most striking difference, though, was seeing Odin stare ahead with both of his eyes. Odin's gaze was icy and blue, like Thor's own, and he knew a moment where he could not look away, not used to seeing his father without his patch and his single eyed gaze. What he saw must have been at the beginning of the Great War, Thor finally decided, for Anann and her sisters had not taken arms alongside Odin in the time before Laufey had leveled that first blow against Midgard.

Around them, the moon they walked through was not the calm and idyllic place Thor had come to know during his Quest of Proof - one with soft secrets and dripping with seiðr. No, in the sky above the forest, a flame grew. Ash rained down, piercing the tree canopies from above until the hot pieces stuck to their armor and burnt holes into the foliage around them. Birds screamed from their perches in response, while in the underbrush creatures ran to and fro in answer to the chaos around them; the scent of fire and destruction in the air.

And in the sky, the flames continued to burn, spinning as a disk did in a sick pantomime of the sun and her dance.

Thor's brow furrowed as he realized what he was seeing. He had heard about the twelfth moon of Álfheimr being devoured by the dragon in the early days of the Great War, before Níðhöggr was imprisoned by Odin, but he had never thought to see it with his own eyes.

In the sky, the twelfth moon burned, and on the moon that would someday become a haven presided over by the Mórrigan, the dragon roared. In the distance, Thor could hear him thunder - a wounded and angry sound, willing any and all around him away.

And as the forests around them listened to the dragon and fled, those in Odin's convoy stepped closer. In their shadows, Thor walked. And he listened.

"This quest is a diversion that your lands cannot stand to take," Anann was the one who was speaking, addressing Odin's back with a familiarity that had Thor raising a brow. Few were the souls who addressed Odin so in such a tone, and lived to speak of the abuse again. Still, she spoke with her brow narrowed, her eyes fierce. In her gaze, that same wisdom which Thor had encountered himself weighed, and her humble clothes and shepherd's hook only seemed to add to the strength of her words.

"I myself will never turn down a good hunt," Macha disagreed with her sister, her fierce look turning to tease. Every corner of her was sharp and silver born, as Thor remembered. Where Anann was liquid and powerful – an army spilling over a field, Macha was pointed and bare – every bit the charge of hooves and feet upon the ground. "And the dragon will definitely prove to be that."

From next to them, Týr smiled. He paused in his stride in order to clap the much smaller woman on the back. "Aye, that is true for me as well. Fighting giants is well and mighty, but every once and a while, a good fight against a wyrm is needed to remind us who the true warriors in these realms are."

Anann's gaze tightened – a look Thor was more than familiar with from his brother's face. It was a look that withered and questioned the brains over the brawn of the stare's recipient.

And Týr rolled his shoulders unrepentantly to the look.

Anann turned her gaze to Odin, who too had slowed to hear her words. She ignored his second. "The Nornir see many things, but it would be remiss indeed to take every word they say as absolute. Your realms cannot spare this battle - all to clip the roots of a vision that may never come to be."

And Odin's gaze was withering in return. "You were there when the Nornir pulled from their web the Twilight's tale. I find it hard to understand why you would protest taking even the smallest of precautions against that fate."

Anann's jaw hooked. "Your own wife saw a different fate of the time to be, did she not? Prophesy is a fickle art, my friend, and those who seek to understand it often find themselves struck the hardest by her blows."

"Many things are seen from many eyes for the future of these realms, and against each and every threat I will take my stand," Odin's voice was unwavering. His gaze was set.

"Which is why I do not understand why we are hunting down this wyrm while Laufey stands poised to strike against Midgard. He gains power and support, and here we are seeking scales -"

" - Laufey's days are numbered," Odin's voice fell as a blow. "That too, prophesy has foreseen."

Anann inclined her head. "Of course, Allfather." For she had been there when Frigg had woven that future, as well. "I remember well the end that is to come of this battle – Jötunnheimr burning, and peace rising to the nine realms from those ashes. But how many enemies will be made here when instead peace can be struck through different means? You mean to bind the dragon now, but while Níðhöggr is guilty of much, he is not yet the worldslayer that prophesy would paint him to be. He hurts, and he strikes – so yes, deal to him a punishment worthy of the crime. If you bind him with Niflheimr's magic, in the centuries to come, you will make the foe that prophesy speaks of. His hatred will grow. His madness will spiral with his imprisonment."

"Níðhöggr's prison is constructed for his own deeds," Odin said sharply. "Surely you must agree with that."

Anann took in a deep breath. "Then slay him now, and grant he and all of the realms a peace for the time to come."

Odin paused. The lines around his mouth were tight. "Some things on the boughs of the Mother are not for us to slay. Níðhöggr is made up of an old magic. An elemental magic. I do not have the power at my disposal to do away with him." The final words were clipped, unwillingly torn as Odin admitted to a weakness he'd rather not.

"Then let him have this moon," Anann returned. "Let him heal in peace. Let him atone for the destruction of the twelfth moon. Make an ally of the things older than us – don't bind them away and expect them not to bite back once that leash is set."

"Níðhöggr," Odin spoke very slowly, as if addressing a child, "is no innocent. No ally I would have by my side. What we do today, we do for all of the realms. And you will remember your vow, and my promise in return for it, if you mean to ever collect on that once the war is done."

Finally, Anann inclined her head. She wore her acceptance in her eyes, her promise in the spin of her words. "And for that, I will follow you – down whatever path your battles take us."

Odin nodded, accepting the renewal of her vow even as her fists clenched tight around the staff of her hook.

"Know that we can rewrite prophesy," Odin said once silence had stretched for a moment, his voice gentle in comparison to the blows he had been leveling. "We have seen the ends that benefit us all, as well as those which would do us harm. There is much to look to the future for, especially at this war's end."

Laufey with his angry eyes and empty armies. Jötunnheimr left eternally to the cold winter night. Nál dead, slain in the temple she presided over in the heart of her realm. The Casket of Ancient Winters far from its own soil, and entombed deep beneath Asgard's heart.

And to the Allfather and his wife . . .

Anann's eyes turned sly then, sparking like metal against a whet stone. "And, on that note," she said carefully, looking first to Odin and then to Týr, "I must congratulate you on your upcoming fatherhood. We are all happy for you and your bride."

Odin's eyes slanted over, angered – for Frigg's condition from where she was hidden on Vanaheimr were known only to a select few. To utter the words so openly on a moon which they did not have secured as their own . . .

And yet, to her side, Týr puffed up with pride in response to her words. "I thank-you for your kind words, milady," he took her congratulations as her own. "Gná shall bring my daughter into the world before the War's end, you will see. I can't even describe it – already the child kicks strong enough to bruise my hand. My wife is carrying a Valkyrie so it would seem!"

"And to better parents, the child could not go," Odin praised his second, his voice warm even as his gaze remained warning upon Anann. She held the look, and returned it.

Týr bowed his head, but he could not fully fight his smile from his face. He had no reason to keep it at bay as he swung his axe over to rest on his shoulders. In his shadow, Thor felt his own smile ache upon seeing the other man so, and not for the first did he wish that Sif shared his vision.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the steady footfalls of the guards behind them. Týr whistled onto the ash strewn air, no doubt thinking of the wife and daughter he would have to return to at the war's end. And, finally, Odin turned to the last one in their group. "And you are ready to do your part?"

Thor turned, and from Odin's shadow, a tall and willowy woman formed. Where none had stood before, the shadows parted to reveal the Mistress of Niflheimr. Lady Hel stood, wearing golden battle armor along with that of bone. She seemed pale and washed away without the lights of Helheimr to grant her the glow of life, but her eyes were bright and verdant. Smoke pooled around her, violet and blue and billowing as she flowed into being.

At the show of seiðr, Odin's brow rose, but he did not say a word against a being even more ancient and elemental than he and his line.

Hel turned, and the decaying half of her face caught the light. The molted flesh and dead skin was not as extreme as Thor remembered, the veins not nearly as pronounced, the eye not nearly as sunken this far back in the stream of time. For a moment, he wondered how Hel had looked at the beginning of her reign, before death and loss had put their mark on her skin – before Niflheimr had consumed her as one of its own.

"I am prepared to do as you summoned me to," Hel said, her voice low and soft, holding the same warmth that all of Yggdrasil's elemental things did.

"Do not forget your vows when the time comes," Odin still saw fit to remind, for Anann was not the only one in the group who had spoken against his treatment of prophesy. The whole cloth of the Nornir had only been shown to Odin and his queen - not even Anann knew the entirety of the prophesies to come. And it was that reason, and that reason alone, that support was still granted where many questioned. The realms prospered under the hand of the Allfather, and for that, he would have many at his back and by his side.

"I shall not," Hel said simply in reply, her eyes narrowed in a look of distaste that Thor found to be familiar to his eyes. But he could not place it. He could not deign the memory of it in his mind. He found himself frowning, his face furrowing downwards as it always did when grappling with a thought that remained elusive to him.

And then Hel's cold look turned. Her mouth hooked, the shape of it turning slyly. When she spoke, her words winded, like a serpent in the sand. "And congratulations to the father to be amongst us," Hel inclined her head, her infinite eyes swimming. "The fates have truly smiled upon you."

Týr inclined his head to the half-alive woman, his smile kind. "And let us pray that they continue to do so."

"For us all," Anann whispered. Before her, Odin's gaze pierced at her words, but he too nodded. He too agreed.

And, beyond them, the dragon continued to roar.

.

.

Thor awakened to the feeling of strong fingers pressing against his shoulder. When his eyes fluttered, half aware, he could not tell day from night in his chamber. The shadows still pervaded the whole of the space around him, and the fire in the hearth was nothing more than ash, only faintly warm.

He turned to the touch that had drawn him from his dreams, and he saw Sif standing over him. In the darkness, her smile was very white. Her armor already gleamed from where it covered her body. The only shadow that clung to the glare was where her inky hair fell around her one shoulder, already tied away for the battle to come.

"Come now, the dawn is here," said Sif, and already Thor could hear the hunt in her veins. The battle in her voice.

He blinked, and felt the same stain bite away at his own heart in reply. He inhaled tired, and exhaled refreshed, already itching for armor and movement. He rose, and shooed her away in order to ready himself, and within the next quarter mark, they were standing at the borders of Éljúðnir, ready to depart.

Where behind them, Hel's city was celestial and gleaming, through the gate in her walls, the realm of Náströnd beyond was cold and black. A thick smog clung to the ground, and to the air. It smelled of decay, of death and despair, and both Thor and Sif stood with their bodies inclined to the city they were to leave, not yet stepping towards the shadows beyond.

Showing them to the gates were Garmr and Hel herself. Unlike the day before, Hel wore simple garb while traveling with them to the edge of her realm's heart. Her leggings and tunic were made up of shimmering black leathers, and armor clung to her long limbs like glass, reflecting the brilliance of the souls and cosmos around her. Her boots were sturdy, and her hair was drawn back and braided into a long plait that hung down the center of her back. The only decoration on her was the diadem she wore about her brow, a simple band of gold with a single emerald at its pinnacle.

And in her hands she carried a weapon. A long scabbard, with a hilt of a sword peaking from its mouth.

Under Thor's intent gaze, she unsheathed the sword from its resting place. The metal sang as it was drawn away, humming as it tasted the air. The edges of the blade were sharp, catching the light as it was tilted by Hel's hand. The angles of the metal reflected all around it, shinning as a mirror until the dark steel was black from where it returned the image of the land about it. The blade was long and thin, bearing the marks of dwarfish craft with its elegant hold and the deep runes etched into the base of the metal. Hel passed the sword to Thor, not a word on her tongue when actions better would do.

Thor took the sword, and all at once there was a change in the steel. The dark grey metal now sparked. Blue flames licked about the blade. They sang, they caressed, and their fires caught in Thor's gaze, the color a direct replica of his own. They matched, he and they, and Sif watched with curiosity as the sword greeted Thor as if it had always been his own.

"What sort of trickery is this?" Thor asked, his question lost to the tremble in his voice. Sif felt herself tense at the sound of his voice, the tone calling her to arms, even though she could see no battle to fight.

The living side of Hel's mouth quirked, amused in the face of Thor's amazement. "This blade was crafted by Ivaldi himself," she started to answer his questions.

But Thor shook his head. "Impossible. These are new marks, and Ivaldi has long since been -"

" - dead?" Hel finished his sentence wryly.

The tips of Thor's ears flushed pink, and he shook his head.

She continued, bemused. "Ivaldi watched from my abode when Brokkr and Sindri created their goods for the Allfather's challenge, and his pride was unmatched when Brokkr produced Mjölnir from his forge. But always will Brokkr and Sindri pale in the face of the smith their father once was. Although, I do admit that it was . . . interesting coercing the dwarf into granting his aid. For Asgard he bears love enough, but for the second son little to none."

Thor snorted ruefully. "Loki has much come to quarrel with their kind," he admitted.

Sif, remembering golden twine and a bloody mouth did not smile so much as nod. Her hand on the hilt of her glaive was tight.

"Indeed," Hel said, her eyes green fire. "But Ivaldi owes me a kindness, and so, this blade was made for your hunt today."

Thor shook his head. "You do not understand, milady. With this blade I can . . . I can feel . . ."

"The storms?" Hel finished his sentence, yet again. "As you should. For the material that this blade was crafted from was Mjölnir herself in another time."

"Another time," Thor echoed hollowly, his brow creasing with confusion.

"A darker time," Hel's voice was solemn. "A time when the Twilight came and shattered all. All, including the unbreakable." She gestured to Thor's hammer, hanging safe and silent at his hip. "She was a valiant weapon, held by the hand of a valiant warrior, but all fall when confronted with the right blow. Even so, fragments of her remained through the final day, even after the fires faded and cooled. The blade you hold in your hand holds Mjölnir's essence, made molten through the inferno of the Twilight."

Thor's grasp tightened around the hilt of the sword. In his hand the blade hummed, seemingly feral as above them the skies rumbled in response to the thunderer so close to Mjölnir's soul. Sif could feel rain drops, small and few, strike against her armor when Thor lifted the sword before him, testing the weapon's weight and feel. The taste of the rain was cleansing.

"My only caution is this, the blade cannot leave my realm," Hel warned. "It was forged by a dead soul's hand, and from material originating from a time that is yet to be. It was forged for the here and now, in my realm only, which exists out of time. This blade is for Níðhöggr's heart, and then it shall be no more."

"I understand," Thor said solemnly in reply, his voice a weight and a vow. "And it will take this blade to slay Níðhöggr?" he asked.

Hel tilted her head. "Níðhöggr is made of the flame's might, but the magic in the core of him is Niflheimr's own. Remember, when you strike against him, that Mother Yggdrasil drew from both extremes of creation in order to give birth to us all. Fire and ice, between these two there always is a balance - and too long has this balance been forgotten by those who reside on her boughs. It is that balance, that accord, that will grant you a victory both today and in the time to come. Do you understand?"

And Thor inclined his head. "I understand," again he said. Again he swore.

And Sif felt her heart tighten at the look that Hel gave her friend. There was such a pride in her gaze. Pride, and hope, and such a crushing sadness that Sif could not name. It was a sorrow that hung in her gaze, in the twist of her mouth – it was the sort of sorrow that only memory could inflict. Sif felt her own shoulders turn heavy at the thought, though she could not deign why.

"We believe that you can do this," was the last thing Hel said. "All of us who have seen the Nornir's web so grant to you our hopes for the future." _Do not abuse that power_ , her words hung in the air. Not spoken, but still heard.

"And I will not fail that hope," Thor swore.

Sif felt her smile turn at the sincerity in his eyes. It turned up even further when she again saw her hopes for the future gather upon her friend's shoulders. Someday, his reign would be such a light to the realm's after Odin entered into his final sleep. Of that, she held no doubt in her heart.

This time, it was Hel who bowed to Thor. The bow was deep, not the respect of the dead towards those not, but that of a monarch to another monarch. Ruler to ruler.

Hel straightened, and took a moment to gather herself. The bone plates on her chest lifted when she breathed. "Now," she said, collected once more, "have you found your path?" She gestured to the oilskin in Sif's hand.

Sif nodded. "Aye, that we have."

"Then, I bid that you follow it well, and strike true," Hel gave them her parting blessing.

And with the words, Thor turned to Náströnd beyond them, ready to set out on their hunt. Sif, though, lingered. She was slow to turn. Instead, she tilted her head and tried to call her words to her tongue. Thor, once realizing that she did not follow, stopped and turned back. His gaze questioned.

Hel gave a soft smile at her hesitation. "Go," she beckoned, her voice soothing as if she understood. The dip to Thor's gaze deepened. When Sif did not move, Hel's smile turned wane. It weighed."We will meet again." There was a promise to her words. An assurance she did not realize she had sought until it was given. Oddly comforted, Sif took the words and tucked them close.

She bowed, low and from her waist. as was fitting from a warrior to a sovereign. And Hel inclined her head in answer.

"Níðhöggr awaits," the dread queen said, and her voice quickened like a ghost in the mist as Thor and Sif crossed through the gate, and into Náströnd beyond. For a moment, their forms flickered, stronger than the fog. And then, the darkness swallowed them.

Arm in arm, Hel and Garmr watched until they could watch no more. And then Hel sighed. "Someday," she said, her voice small in the great expanse of her realm. "Prophesy will have to answer for the path it has put them upon. For the path it has put all of us upon."

The sigh Garmr gave was full, drawn from the deep parts of him. But still, he wove his living hand through her deadening one, offering her his support. As always, the touch anchored her.

And then, together, they made their way back to the heart of her realm.

.

.

Where Éljúðnir had been the mystical and dazzling brilliance of the cosmos, Náströnd was a dark and unnatural place. The landscape was defined by barren rocks, ruddy and black by turn. The stone ways were porous and rough, covered by hundreds of tiny white vines that criss crossed over every possible surface. Besides the vines, the land was absent of foliage, yet thick plumes of smoke rose from fissures in the rock mass until the black clouds created a sick pantomime of a forest and its might. Cutting through the land, crystal clear water boiled and bubbled with a cold blue flame, for this was still the land of Niflheimr, and the might of fire and its heat would not be found here.

On the horizon, the sky was a cold shade of grey, shaded by the fog around them. The smoke stung at Sif's eyes, making them water. The smell of the land settled in the back of her nose, in her throat, and she fought the urge to gag at the taste – brimstone and ash and decay so fragrant and bold that she could not discern anything else beside it. She inhaled deeply, hoping to be numb to the scent by the time they faced the dragon.

While the landscape was hard and harsh, continually dipping and rising, the hardest part of their trek was navigating the countless waterways. The rivers of Náströnd rushed through the stone earth like veins through a clawed hand, and the currents were as violent as the realm in which they traveled through. The water here was fresh and pure, flowing as it did from the heart of creation. These waters were tributaries, running from Hvergelmir to feed the waterways in all nine of the realms. Sif felt the cold water bite at her waist as they waded through yet another broad river, keeping to their path, and her shiver was kept at bay only at the knowledge that the icy water around her came from the spring that would so save Loki's soul.

Their journey, at least, was met without the horrors which normally accompanied Náströnd's name. They saw naught of one black soul, or the even darker creatures who kept watch over them, thanks to Hel's hold over the realm. For that small favor, Sif was glad, for there were tracks in the tar like substance they trudged through on the banks of the rivers. The uneven tracks told tales of unnatural things, accompanied by lines of those who had been dragged through the realm. There were marks on the rock face, white and deep, where claws had scoured the stone. Beyond them, screams filled the air. Náströnd was not a place of peace, but of a final death for those who had caused darkness and pain to be so in their lives. The horizon was alive with moans and cries of despair, and more than the scent of smoke and the bite of ice did the sound beat behind Sif's heart.

No wonder the dragon was mad, after being so long bound in such a place . . .

Ahead of her by a stride, Thor looked to the map which she had annotated, and then up again to the bleak land around him. He, with his golden hair and white grin, was amiss in the dark mire of his surroundings, even more so than he had been in Hel's hall. "Last night when I dreamed, I saw glimpses of this trail," Thor said, breaking the silence between them.

"You did?" Sif asked, curious as to what memories Éljúðnir had thought to give to him.

"Aye," Thor confirmed. "I dreamed of the time when Níðhöggr was banished, back in the early days of the Great War. I saw my lord father with both of his eyes, accompanied by your own father."

Sif thought of Týr, and knew a tightening in her heart. It was hard to mourn what one had never known, but still an instinctive ache lingered with her throughout the years.

"He looked much like you," Thor continued on, a kindness in his voice. "And I recognized at least three of your defensive forms when he fought."

Sif let her grin strike. "A fearsome warrior he must have been."

Thor snorted. "And he bore your faulty footwork every time he came away from a feint -"

She turned to him, indignant. "So says Thor Tanglefoot himself," she let the appellation go slyly – Loki's name for his brother when the second son prevailed over the first with grace and speed rather than brute strength.

Thor rolled his eyes, but still he continued, "I saw with them the Lady Hel, and the Mórrigan as well."

Sif blinked. "So many were needed to slay one wyrm?"

"To slay Níðhöggr," Thor corrected, as if the name was explanation enough. "And even then the battle was long."

Sif was silent for a moment, letting his words weigh upon her. To know that such warriors had taken up arms against the dragon, and had struggled so . . . That, along with prophesy's unfavorable words . . . but no. Hel would not have sent them on such a hopeless quest. The power to render the wyrm no more laid within them. It had to. For the sake of all of their souls.

And then another thought pushed against her. "Hel said that such dreams in her land were memories, memories of things passed, or things to come. Things which never have been, even. I wonder whose memories you were granted to see."

Thor tilted his head curiously at her. "It is a question for thought," he replied. "When did you have the occasion to speak to the dread queen alone?"

"I dreamed," Sif answered simply. "And I did not dream well. She awakened me."

Thor's face was a look of distaste. "There have been far too many of such dreams on this journey," he said, his hand tightening over the hilt of Ivaldi's sword. "Do you remember what you saw?"

Sif's brow furrowed. She tried to call the dream to mind, but like any other dream, the remembrance of it was like mist to her. "I remember little of it," she admitted. "I remember only that I felt such a fear, a crushing weight greater than any I have ever felt in battle. It was a fear I did not even feel when I dreamed of the Twilight to come." Still, there had been such a love next to that fear – greater too than anything she had ever felt, or could imagine feeling. For without the one, the other never could be. That she did not say to Thor, unsure as she was of how to shape the words. She paused, but she did add, "I think that in the dream, I was a mother."

At that, Thor laughed. From beside him on the path, Sif took a moment to elbow him. "Silence your tongue," she warned, unable to do more when the path before them was narrow, with an unkind fall left to a misstep. Below them, white waters raged. In their depths, black souls moaned.

"Forgive me, milady," Thor still grinned with his bemusement. "I meant only to imply that the man strong enough to win your hand – to turn your eye from the battlefield and to cradle and hearth - must be a particularly brave man indeed. Stupidly so."

His words drew her smile in return, acknowledging the teasing. But still she said, "Eventually, all yearn for family." For she could not explain how right she had felt in the dream. how at ease she had felt with the child in her arms. It was a rightness she had only known the first time she had held a sword and acknowledged its place in her hand. A rightness she had known the first time her hand had slipped through Loki's own, and she acknowledged her wanting. "Don't you want children someday?" she asked her friend then, curious.

Thor rubbed at the back of his head. "Someday, I will need a son to carry on the line of Bor. But a child comes after a bride, and that part of the equation is something I do not feel missing from my life at the time being."

When she thought of the daughters of Asgard who so vied for Thor's hand, Sif snorted. "It is a choice I do not envy you," she snickered. Odin Allfather was even more of a matchmaker than his wife, and Thor could scarce attend a feast without a daughter of an 'old battle companion' being pushed upon him to dance. Half of them Thor was able to scare away with his thick feet on the dance floor, the other half were more tenacious.

"Some are more horrendous than others," Thor made a face, his thoughts traveling down the same path as her own.

Sif looked thoughtful for a moment. "Lofn?" she asked to the first lady who came to mind. "She is a very kind and loving maiden."

Thor made a face. "And too easily does she give way to tears. There is too little of war in her nature."

Lofn would mourn a flower's death, it was true. Sif continued to think. "Idunn?" she asked then, thinking of the golden woman who kept to Asgard its youth. Idunn's sister, Ilna, presided over the feasts, and was wedded to Volstagg. Already to that couple belonged six children, if Sif counted correctly.

At that, Thor laughed. "Hogun would never forgive me, I fear, if I sought out Idunn's hand."

Sif processed that. "Hogun?" she repeated, joy spiking in her chest for her friend. "How did I not know?"

"Your eyes are kept too long by your shield," Thor teased. "And Hogun is not one to speak of many things to many ears."

"Indeed, but as a lady, I should have known before _you_."

"Perhaps," Thor gave with a smile. His gaze settled for a moment upon her face, as if considering something.

A moment passed. And still his eyes lingered. "What has caught your attention so?" Sif asked frankly to his appraisal.

"Perhaps," Thor said slyly, "I can set all of the rumors to rest, and just marry _you_."

Sif snorted. "Your father would be pleased," she said to that. For long had that been the unspoken will of Odin. "But unfair to you, for I fear I would make a terrible bride – bringing you bloody heads rather than a son and heir. And to be the Allmother someday? No, I would not wish upon Asgard that fate." The court was a beast that Sif had never had the urge to slay. The pandering and playing of the nobility was a battle not meant for her; her with her blunt blows and her warring ways. She had spent too long fighting against the better half of the upper caste – all who had turned their noses to the idea of a warrior maid. To be their queen, and have their fake adoration where she had known their spite and their cruel words before . . . No. It was not to be.

Thor laughed, but he did not disagree with her. His gaze was fond upon her, but that was all it would ever be. And, as always, it was a look she warmed under, but she did not soar.

And then, Sif's eyes narrowed before she delivered her final blow. "Perhaps," she said as casually as she could, "you could just wed Amora and be done with it."

Thor pressed his hand over his heart, feigning a great and terrible wound. "How your words do me harm!" he exclaimed. "Me and the witch, now _that_ is a thought for Asgard's future."

Sif shook her head when she thought of the poor enchantress and her hopeless love. "Skurge will be grateful to hear that." Equally hopeless with his affections, the strongman adored the very ground that the half Álfar maid walked upon. Someday, there would be a tragedy to tell there, Sif was sure.

And again, Thor shook his head, as if trying to understand something past his ability to comprehend. "And yet, we speak of the future before we have lived through our hunt," his brow furrowed seriously when he saw that they had come to a gap in the paths. The water swam even more quickly here than it did before. It hissed and bubbled, breaking the ice that would have settled upon it otherwise.

Sif looked up, and realized that the sound of the souls beyond had faded. The path before them had lost its tracks. There was no sign of Náströnd's black souls and dark creatures.

The path turned, it dipped. Before them, the rock mass crested. It rose from the ground like teeth behind a lip. And as they climbed the steep expanse, they finally saw the roots that formed Níðhöggr's prison. The massive wooden structures pulsed with a cold magic – for they were enchanted to show as physical embodiments of Yggdrasil's might, bound by Niflheimr's magic. They twisted and gnarled together, and their barrier formed the nest of the dragon they sought to face. There was a wall of jewel toned rock, and from beyond Nidhoggr's massive prison, there was the sound of water – a gushing and bubbling spring that fed a massive river that started fierce and cold before falling over the cliff's edge that the dragon's den opened to. The waterfall that the spring created was massive and majestic, an unparalleled sight to her travels so far. This was Hvergelmir and its might. Finally, they stood before their goal.

Her eyes narrowed hungrily on the water. Her fingers itched. She remembered Loki's soul in her hand and thought _almost_. But not quite.

Thor was eying the den as a soldier would spy a front line. They kept to the smaller water ways, approaching from down wind. Their footsteps were wet. Black slime stuck to the rock on the shore beneath their boots. The tiny white vines that clung to the rock gave them a strong purchase for their hands, slick though they were from the tar that coated all around them. In the dragon's den, bones littered the ground as leaves may have lined the forest floors. They gathered in piles, they floated on the edges of the water where the currents had pushed them aside. There was a reason for the silence around them, Sif thought as her gaze turned to an empty skull at her feet. In contrast to the sea of soul's in Hel's hall, this was death and a final end, pure and simple.

"Remember the dragon Skaldi we faced?" Thor questioned, soft from next to her. He broke her from her thoughts.

Her eyes spied up, looking for the dragon amongst his den. She saw nothing but the colored stone. "The one who thought himself to be a poet?" she remembered, her voice holding the black humor that accompanied any battle.

"Who agreed to let Fandral and Hogun escape his meal by demonstrating their talent composing using iambic pentameter," Thor agreed.

Sif snorted. "Odin's Mighty Spear is now a popular drinking song in the mead halls. Who would have thought that Fandral had the soul of a bard all along?"

Thor's look was wry. "What are the odds that Níðhöggr will accept such a battle here?"

"Hopefully few," Sif muttered, still searching. "Your talents with words are as few as your talents with steel are great. I would not trust Loki's soul to such a bet." For while not every wyrm intended them harm, there were too many who needed violence to part ways from. Such, Sif reflected, was the nature of many things.

"Or the time when we stood against Fáfnir? Remember the trenches in which we waited for the whole pass of a day?" Thor made a face at the memory of that particular escapade.

Sif shook her head. "I remember that Fandral lamented the state of his hair and dress the whole day through until I was ready to strike him rather than the dragon."

They came to the final bend in the stream they followed. The rock parted, and both of them squeezed in through the massive roots that formed Níðhöggr's boundary.

Still, she could not spy the dragon. There was just the massive stones, and the cliff beyond them. The water of Hvergelmir which rushing down to the southern part of Náströnd below . . .

"Thor, something is wrong," she finally said. "I see no wyrm, and Níðhöggr has not left this place in near eight hundred years."

Thor spied up as well, his eyes everywhere at once.

Before them, a brush of wind passed. It stank of rotting bones and old flesh, death and decay and foul corpses. It was a dragon's breath, breathing down upon them.

The rock mass shifted.

And Sif started as realization struck her. "Thor," she hissed, but she had not needed to sound her words. Thor saw the same moment she did, and together the both of them backed to the roots that formed Níðhöggr's prison.

And Níðhöggr moved.

What once Sif thought to be merely stone and rock was actually the dragon himself. Níðhöggr shifted, moving his massive forelegs out from under him in order to stand, letting the mire that had settled upon him fall away. The dull colors of the stone turned bright, shimmering and majestic, until it was obvious that they were not stone at all, but rather jewel toned scales. The wyrm was massive, seemingly everywhere their eyes could take in until he filled the whole of his prison. His head was staggering, nearly five times as tall as Thor, with straight and sharp horns that swept back from his brow. Smaller such horns continued all the way down his spine. They rose as warnings. In the relatively small space of his nest, his wings were kept bound to his back. She wondered for a moment how he would look against the sun, with his bright colors and massive wings, before hiding the thought away.

When Níðhöggr opened his eyes, his stare was molten. Crimson and mad. And . . .

Blind.

The dragon could not see. He bore scars about his eyes, telling of where his sight had been taken from him in the time before. He could no longer make sight of the world around him, and in place his massive nostrils flared as he took in their scent. His forked tongue tasted the air, searching.

And in the depths of his dead gaze, madness dwelt. Sores decorated his skin, telling where his own claws had scratched, trying to gouge away the enchantments that held him captive. There were burn marks on his scales, telling where his breath had burned hot against his prison. On the roots around him, there were lines of black soot where his bars had been scorched. But he had not been able to burn his breath hot enough. He did not have the heat within him.

In her hand, the hilt of her glaive was well worn and ready. Her shield hummed at her back.

And Thor stepped forward, ready.

The dragon stirred, his massive claws clicking against the ground. "Who art thou to move amongst Níðhöggr's nest?" called the dragon, the sound of him ancient and elemental. His voice did not float upon the air. Instead, Sif heard it in her mind; heard it thrum from her bones, and pound from her heart. His voice was deep, yet musical – like thunder in the clouds, or water as if fell over a cliff. It was harsh and it was bold, and still it sang.

The both of them were silent. They slipped through the dragon's nest like the fog that blanketed the land.

Níðhöggr's nostrils flared. "Níðhöggr can see thee not, but Níðhöggr can smell thy blood on the air. Flame-born, are thee? Of Asgard's berth . . . and Odin's blood, at that. Thunderer," Níðhöggr hissed the title, tasting the air with his tongue. "Long has thy blood been a taste most longed for upon Níðhöggr's palette. Come hither, and let Níðhöggr take his feast. Thou as well, shield-maiden, daughter of Týr. Champions, Níðhöggr knew Frigg-Queen would send. Murderers, Odin would bid close to Níðhöggr. A mercy, Hel-Queen will think thy quest to be. Mercy for Níðhöggr's soul, and Yggdrasil's future."

"We come, for the water of Hvergelmir which the dread lady Hel will not give without your heart," Thor declared, drawing Ivaldi's before him, ready to strike.

Níðhöggr's head swiveled. He peered, though he had no sight to see. "Long have those born of Bor Firstfather tried to strike against Níðhöggr's and his own. The spring called Hvergelmir is within Níðhöggr's abode, and drawing from it shall come at price of blood."

"Indeed it shall," Thor's voice promised. It thundered.

And Níðhöggr laughed, the sound tapping like tiny claws over her bones, far beneath muscle and skin. "Come then, flame-born. Wave thy sticks and stones, and try to take from Níðhöggr what is his own."

Though tiny in comparison to the dragon, Thor paced before him. Though Níðhöggr's shadow swam over him like the tide through a shell, still the first son tilted his head up proudly. In his hands, the sword formed from Mjölnir's heart flashed. It sang its promise to her wielder.

Níðhöggr again tasted the air with his tongue. His rumbling growl shook the ground, making the bones at their feet shudder. The uneven earth gave to the force of the dragon upon it, and still Thor stood tall. Sif watched, her hands tight on the hilt of her glaive.

Thor wasted little more with words. Long had the shapes of syllables and their might been second to him, and now he needed them not as he lifted the sword high above his head. As she had seen him do a hundred times before, he swirled the blade. The air in the nest crackled. Static clung to her skin. It spun through her hair. Above him, the sky turned dark. Electric blue light flashed off of the prison of roots around them.

And the storms answered his call. Thunder built and built and built until when Thor gave his charge, lightning preceded him, striking Níðhöggr full on the heart. The dragon screamed at the force of the bolt, but he did not fall. Instead, he bowed his head, and clasped a claw to his chest. He closed his eyes, and breathed in . . . he breathed in the lightning. It did not burn him. It merely charged his scales. It made his eyes burn all too bright.

"Foolish flame-born," Níðhöggr rumbled. "Form'est was Níðhöggr from fire and her might. Thy storms may touch Níðhöggr not."

Sif saw the first threads of worry wind their way into Thor's gaze. To have his storms so useless . . .

Níðhöggr breathed, showing where he still held the lightning in his mouth. It sparked and spluttered between his fangs. It crackled. The scent of sulfur increased. He was going to -

"Thor!" Sif shouted her warning, but she needed not to.

Níðhöggr exhaled, and he exhaled fire. A heat unlike anything Sif had ever known before filled the cavern. It licked at the tar on the rock, it ate the remnants of bones around them. It sang upon the spring of Hvergelmir, making the icy water bubble and boil. It popped at Sif's boots as she held her shield before her and ducked down as low as she could. Over the rock, the thick roots created trenches and gorges, and she crouched down in order to wade out the dragon's breath.

If Thor's storms could not slay the wyrm, then they would have to do this the old fashioned way.

The flames faded as Níðhöggr inhaled. He roared, and Sif lengthened the reach of her blades. She felt the war sing in her veins. It hollered. Her boots were wet with the water that would so deliver Loki, and with the thought she moved her toes against the worn leather encasing her. She found her center.

She sprang forward then, springing up at the same time Thor did. He struck against the scales with both his sword and Mjölnir, using the winds to propel him up high on the dragon's body. Sif, without the power of flight, struck low, trying to find a hook in the dragon's tender belly.

"Thou dost think that such trifle weapons can strike against Níðhöggr?" the dragon laughed. The sound rumbled through their veins. "Thy father brought with him an army to imprison Níðhöggr, an army with shield spells and mage chants aplenty. Thee with thy tiny blows and hearts empty of seiðr can do naught to touch Níðhöggr."

The dragon swatted at Thor, and it was clear that he was playing with him – flicking the Thunderer away as a hand may swat at a fly. He moved his massive tail, and struck against her at the same time. "Níðhöggr can smell thee as well, shield-maiden. The blood of Tyr's daughter shall be hot and sweet, as was that which I took from thy lord father, this Níðhöggr knows to be true."

Sif's hands curved over the hilt of her blade. She felt her muscles burn, her limbs stretched as she danced around the dragon's massive limbs. Her teeth bared to the insult. "You took from my father a token, he took from you all," she returned, speaking her words up into the wind so that they carried. They lifted.

The dragon thrashed his tale at her, catching her about the stomach and sending her flying. He still had not looked away from Thor. The blow was as a parent scolding a child, and Sif set her teeth at it. "And Týr's strengths are unparalleled by thy own, little one," the dragon mocked.

Sif skidded across the bone strewn ground. She felt her armor scrape, her skin catch on the sharp points around her. She bit her lip, bore the discomfort, and let the force of the blow put her back on her feet again. She sprang up, and this time ducked low and twisted under his tail. She danced between his great legs, striking her glaive against his massive sides.

Her glaive skidded across the mighty scales. It did not even leave a line, a mark speaking of where her blow should have been taken.

The scales were impervious to their weapons, Sif realized with a sick feeling in her stomach. Even Mjölnir above her could do nothing to put a dent in the strong scales. While Ivaldi's sword fared little better than Sif's glaive, it still could not dig beneath the dragon's scales. Fire and ice, Hel had said was needed to unlock the blade's might, but how . . .

Her thoughts spun, tactics and strategies coming and leaving in the time it took her to dodge just one of the dragon's blows. Again, she glanced up to where Thor was flying around the dragon's eyes – taunting Níðhöggr with his blindness. Such taunts would buy them time, but only time. It would not earn them a victory. Sif felt her stomach turn. Her heart seized.

It would not end in their favor this way.

This time when Níðhöggr forced her back, she let him. Again she looked at the dragon's tender belly, protected by his strong claws and his lashing tale. She ducked down in the deep trenches created by the roots around them, and finally, she had an idea strike.

"Thor!" she shouted up at her companion. "Remember Fáfnir?"

"That I do, milady," he shouted down to her, and she watched as his sharp eyes shifted to take her in. Her with her ready glaive, and the empty hollows between the roots. How his eyes flashed then to Níðhöggr's lumbering stride, and the quick current of Hvergelmir right beyond them.

His grin hooked as he followed her thoughts with his own. "Normally, this sort of task belongs to the Three," he protested good-naturedly. At the humor in his voice, Níðhöggr swatted more fiercely at him, turning his attention back to the battle at hand.

Sif snorted. Distractions were the Three's forte, it was true.

But this time . . .

They were running out of options, and Níðhöggr's patience would not last for long. He could burn them to a cinder if he truly set his mind to it. And once he tired of humoring them . . .

It was not a thought that stood to linger upon, Sif decided. She set her jaw in determination. And with an exhale, she leapt down into the deep trenches. The paths between the roots were thin, and it was hard for her to find her step. Her boots twisted upon the floor covering of bones. The round edges broke under her feat, made slick by the same thick tar that coated the rest of the land. Sif stepped too hard against a skull, and felt it chip underfoot. Her other foot stuck between the rib cage of some poor unfortunate. She steadied herself against the spine, ignoring the sensation of the curving bones poking against the leather of her boots.

From beyond her, Thor continued to dance with the dragon. He darted left and right in the air, and the dragon matched him. He followed.

And slowly, Níðhöggr moved forward.

She would have to be quicker, Sif judged her time as she slipped from one trench into the next until she was near the edge of Níðhöggr's next. Before her was the spring of Hvergelmir, its strong current racing to reach the massive waterfall that dipped before them. The waterfall was a sheer drop, dipping hundreds and hundreds of feet down below, where it would pour into the first river of the realms - the river Gjöll, Niflheimr's own soul stream. The water roared in her ears. It pulsed in time with her thundering heart.

And still Níðhöggr moved towards the edge.

Steel clashed against scales. From Thor's mouth, thunder rumbled. The dragon exhaled, and Sif could smell fire and brimstone and soot.

Finally, she found her spot. She ducked down low, moving so that her dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Here, she knew the deep shadows would cover the glint of her armor. She was indecipherable from the bones and roots around her. And the rushing water and the down draft of the wind, would hide her scent from the blind dragon. At least, so she hoped.

She held her glaive in readiness. Deeply, she inhaled.

When Níðhöggr moved over the trench she had settled in, it was as if a cloud has passed before the sun. The dim light she had in the trench was choked. The shadows won as around her the light died. Above her, the dragon's belly loomed. There were no scales to cover the soft hide there. Only his massive claws, and his spiked tail. Normally, both of which should have been more than ample to defend himself with.

This chance would not come again to them.

And so, with everything in her, Sif struck up. Her blade struggled to pierce the dragon's flesh, and even when it did, it took her all to move the steel in a slash. She cut, and above her the dragon did not make a sound. She wondered, even, if he blinked.

It wasn't enough, she thought furiously as she twisted the blade. Finally, her movements then brought a reaction. Níðhöggr turned, bringing even more of his mass to cover her place within the trench. But he did not move enough to free her. Instead, more of her trench was covered.

And then he pressed his weight down.

She heard the dragon roar as he threw his weight against the uneven ground beneath him. The walls of the roots groaned in protest. The wood started to splinter. The piled bones started to crack. Sif felt her boots sink deeper and deeper into the tar. Into the mud.

And then, there was nowhere for her to sink against.

From the shifting mass above her, she felt a drop strike her brow. Out of reflex, she reached up to brush it away out of reflex. It was blood, she realized when the droplet ate through the leather of her glove. The dragon's blood, acidic and rank and virile upon her. And _burning_. She felt her flesh sting, the wound smarted from only a drop, and when she withdrew her blade from the dragon's flesh, there would be even more. There would not be enough blood loss to do Níðhöggr harm, but there would be more than enough to be a very real danger to her in the confined space she was in - a space that was becoming smaller and smaller the more Níðhöggr bore his weight down.

He would crush her, she realized as she tried to keep her mind calm, her wits steel. He would crush her, or the trench she was in would soon fill with his burning blood. She moved her shield, which had flared into life at the spike of trepidation in her mind. Angling the golden light, she tried to see how far the tunneled space she was in would let her move. The warm light showed no way out to her – the trench had collapsed at its ends from the dragons weight. There would be no moving back the way she had come.

And no moving forward, she thought, seeing where the rock and the wood gave away to the rushing forces of Hvergelmir, and the great falls beyond.

Above her, Níðhöggr's great mass heaved as if in laughter. She imagined that she could hear Thor call for her, but it was not possible, not through the wall of flesh that now imprisoned her.

Beyond her, Hvergelmir roared.

And Sif steeled her resolve. The spring would bring life to not only one that day, she made up her mind.

She held her shield above her head in the same motion she unsheathed her glaive from Níðhöggr's belly. The blood dripped thickly down, and yet she kept the whole of its fall from striking her with her shield above her. Still the fumes filled the air. The gore gathered at her feet, eating through the bone strewn floor. And with the butt of her glaive, she struck backwards at the wall of bone and root. The rock beneath splintered. The bones gave.

And a new force bit against her, the current of the spring and its inevitable destination.

Sif struck again and again, until the water filled the trenches.

At the sting of the frigid water, Níðhöggr moved away from her trench. But it was too late for her to climb out, not with the water picking its icy fingers at her. It seized her, and its current was one that she could not fight.

Water filled her mouth, her nose and her lungs, and she gagged as she broke above the surface. Gulping in air, she tried to clear her lungs, even as she kicked mightily at the current. Her armor slowed her from swimming. The steel around her, normally her protection in battle, was made a blow with the water slamming into her on all sides. She could not find the bottom of the river with her boots, she could not grasp at the roots on the shore with her hands. Her fingers were cold and icy and they had no feeling. Just barely, she kept a hold onto her shield, a fierce instinct in her daring the water to take what she held dearest to her.

And this time, she did not imagine Thor's cries from above her. She could see him flying towards her – towards the end of Níðhöggr's prison, and the great fall that led to the river of Gjöll below . . . but it was not only Thor who reached for her, but Níðhöggr as well.

And the dragon's reach was far.

She could feel as Níðhöggr's great maw settled around her shield like a vice. He seized at the shield, and Sif's stubborn fingers made it so that she was lifted as well. One would not be without the other. She was freed from the water, and the cold wind of Náströnd bit at her, hitting her everywhere the icy water had previously touched her. She shivered, down to her very bones, and felt her heart leap when she could smell the dragon's fiery breath above her. His carrion eyes were narrowed on her as he tossed her too and fro, trying to break her hold on her shield. The steel had wedged itself between two of his great fangs, and it would not give.

And Sif's fingers held tight.

Furiously, she tried to reach for the glaive that she had been able to secure before the water had taken her. But what would she do with her tiny blade, and Níðhöggr so looming before her? "Absent are thee of thy bite without thy little blade?" Níðhöggr's voice was amused, black and silky, as a spider may have been to a prize in the center of its web. "What shall the shield-maiden do now?"

"I shall cut your tongue out," Sif swore, finding her words within herself. And the idea sounded better and better to her as she tried to swing herself closer to the dragon's maw – closer to anything that would give her a better perch than dangling in the air as she was.

Not too close, she had a moment to think when one of Níðhöggr's thrashings brought her all to near to a rather ignoble end. Her fingers ached as she swung her body in the opposite direction, but she willed the pain away.

She inhaled sharply, her eyes fierce. And then, right beyond her, she heard Thor thunder, "Sif, let yourself fall!"

Instinct gave way to years of training. She ignored the spike of fear she felt at such an idea, and instead listened to the voice she had been trained for centuries to trust implicitly in battle. Her fingers tightened, only once, before she let go completely.

She fell.

And above her, she saw Thor once again draw his storms. The surge of fire and thunder was unlike anything she had ever seen Thor draw before, and the lightning once again consumed Níðhöggr. The flames licked at his skin, at his scales, and this time the dragon threw his head back and roared his pain at the blow the Thunderer dealt him.

And still she fell.

Níðhöggr thrashed, but he did not burn. Ribbons of blue lightning raced up and down his scaled body, brighter than a star in the night sky as he slowly consumed the flames. He breathed smoke. Around them the air was electric and burnt. It sizzled.

He thrashed with his pain, and Sif had only a moment to know alarm before the side of her head was knocked into by his slashing tail.

Immediately, her vision bloomed with black spots. She blinked, but her sight was gone to her as she was thrown even further than she was before – batted away as a ship may have been tossed upon an angry sea. She clung to consciousness, even as her stomach reeled sickly from the blow to her head and her mad spin before the air. Her limbs windmilled wildly, but she had nothing to grasp at. Nothing to turn herself with.

"Sif!" she heard her name yelled as she was flung beyond the roots that formed Níðhöggr's cage. Past the roots and into the great drop of Hvergelmir's spring into the river Gjöll far below them.

"Sif!" Thor screamed, but he was too far to reach her before the water did. Too far, with Níðhöggr's murderous claws held between he and her.

Before her, the fall of Hvergelmir loomed.

And still, she fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ivaldi** : Father of the dwarfs Brokkr and Sindri, who forged Mjölnir and Gungnir and a dozen other things in the myths.
> 
>  **Náströnd** : Comparable to the Greek Tartarus – the black part of Hel's realm where evil souls were cast to in the afterlife. Here they were devoured by the dragon, Níðhöggr.
> 
>  **Níðhöggr** : The dragon imprisoned in Niflheimr, who gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil and devours the evil dead. He, along with Surtr, will be the two to set fire to the Yggdrasil during Ragnarök.
> 
>  **Hvergelmir** : The spring in Niflheimr where all cold rivers come from. This spring is located beneath the dragon's nest.
> 
>  **Idunn** : The goddess of eternal youth, who keeps Asgard immortal through her famous golden apples.
> 
>  **Lofn** : Whose name means 'loving', she is the goddess in charge of arranging marriages.
> 
>  **Fáfnir** : Was a greedy dwarf prince who turned into a dragon in order to protect his horde of gold. The hero Sigurd, in the _Völsunga Saga_ , slays Fáfnir in much the same way that Sif attempted to do away with Níðhöggr here. He waited in a trench, and destroyed Fáfnir from below, having already carved out multiple trenches to avoid the pesky 'being drowned by venom' thing that the myths were so very fond of. Odin was the one to appear and instruct Sigurd to do so. Sif wasn't so lucky here, and Níðhöggr is a more fearsome wyrm than Fáfnir by far, at that, so we can't fault her too much. ;)
> 
>  **Thor's Sword** : Was inspired by the sword Gram, which was Sigurd's as well. The mighty sword belonged to Sigurd's father, Sigmund, and was the Excalibur equivalent in the Norse legends. Odin had struck Gram down into the Barnstokkr (a tree trunk), and only a worthy man could pull it free. At the death of Sigmund, the sword was shattered, but he ordered the pieces kept so that the sword could someday be reforged for his son. In Sigurd's hands, the sword was ten times stronger than it was before.


	13. our fire to breathe

Sif fell.

Around her, the great waterfall of Hvergelmir roared. She could tell neither up from down, nor side from side; instead, all she knew was the water and its weight with its great and terrible sound. If she had thought the resonance of the dragon to be a sound of terror, as thundering as a blow, then the rush of the water around her made the dragon seem as a thumb sized lizard upon a leaf, hissing up at the wide world above it. The waters were pummeling against her, savagely so. They pushed and pressed and struck until it was as if she had a Jötunn warrior striking against every part of her all at once. Her armor was useless to protect her against the onslaught. She could not get her lungs to expand under the weight. She could not breathe. She gulped in short breathes, at a loss to find air amongst the water and the brine and the mists. The water was like the waves in the harshest of ocean storms, falling down and ever down, rather than rolling up and over from the deep depths of the sea.

Her hands reached, but she had nowhere to reach to. Even the effort of moving her arms in the water was a great feat, and her muscles, which were strong enough to throw Thor without straining, protested her misuse of them. From far below her, the river of Gjöll waited from where Hvergelmir poured into its mouth, gleaming like an icy blue ribbon in the grey mire of Náströnd. It was a river whose depths she would not come to know, she thought, for she doubted she would even survive the fall in order to know the sensation of landing. That, at least, would be a small mercy to her.

Her eyes narrowed then, and a cross voice in her mind protested such an ignoble end coming to the warring daughter of Týr. It was not to be this way! Her end was not be written by an elemental force that she had no control over. Her death was to someday come with steel in her side and blood thick on her fingers, and -

Sif thought for a moment of Loki, and hoped that Thor would be able to finish off Níðhöggr by himself. She hoped that Loki would open his eyes again, and she desperately hoped that would not mourn her too terribly. She would not see him lost to the dark parts of his eyes because of her. Not after everything she had done to keep to them their light . . .

She hoped . . . and the water took her.

And then, when she had finally let her bones go liquid and accept her fall, she heard something. Past the roar of the water, she heard . . . a whinny? Yes, yes she did. She heard the neigh of a horse. Multiple neighs, if she heard correctly past the maelstrom in her ears. The cries were equine, sharp and fierce, as if drawn from deep throats; harsh, as if screamed. The sound soared, more avian than anything uttered by those who walked on four legs.

Then, a strong hand curved over the wrist of her gauntlet. The hand gave a mighty pull.

And no longer did she fall.

Instead, Sif snapped her head up, and let her eyes widen in surprise. Through the mists and the thundering water around her she saw five winged horses, their coats glinting in the grey light of Náströnd.

. . . hippogryphs? She identified the beings before her, her thoughts stuttering stupidly.

Dumbly, her mind tried to translate what her eyes were seeing before her. For she had seen true, there was no doubt – before her were five mares, each the strong and beautifully winged horses that had stood up high on the canyon walls while Thor took his sport against the more ferocious looking stallions.

And upon three of the hippogryphs, were the Mórrigan themselves, each one battle strong with eyes that blazed alight, cutting through the fierce gloom of Náströnd.

It was Badb who had caught her, Sif saw. The woman's hands were thick, near as thick as Thor's, and no doubt just as callused under the thick leather gloves she wore. Her stern face never changing, she lifted up, and Sif curved into the motion to aid her – catching herself on the momentum and swinging her body over so that she sat astride Badb's mount, right behind the other woman. The mare under her gave a mighty neigh at her second passenger, but her massive wings continued to beat sure and steady against the wind, pushing them up and up further still, away from the fall of Hvergelmir.

Sif looked up as they rode the wind, awed by the great wings above her, so much like those of an eagle, but massively so. The mare's dainty hooves flashed in the air, as if she wished to run upon the currents of wind as her brethren did across the fields and plains far below. Sif then remembered their battle in the canyons. She remembered lion's paws and beaked mouths, horns and flashing eyes and -

"You looked like you needed a ride to the top," came a chortling voice. Macha, Sif remembered the second strand of the Mórrigan's cord to be called.

Her tongue was heavy in her mouth as she tried to realign the events that had just transpired into some semblance of logic in her mind. "Indeed," Sif's voice was full of her astonishment. Her eyes were still very wide. Her wet hair had slipped to drip down before her eyes. She did not yet push it away. "How did you come to be in this place to offer your aid? No," she adjusted her question, " _why_ would you wish to offer your assistance as such?"

Anann's smile was wry. "The sons of Odin, with you as well, completed my Quest of Proof, did you not?"

"Yes," Sif said, the syllable tripping out, as if in protest. But that had been for the life Thor had taken, not -

"You proved your worth for a mount of Macha's brood," Anann said simply. "Events transpired that delayed the gifting of your prize."

"It took some time to arrange the spells that would allow us into Helheimr," Badb said then in further explanation, her voice low and grave. As always, it slithered up and down Sif's bones. It scraped as sand did. "Else wise, you would not have walked against Níðhöggr without aid."

And Sif thought then of Badb's dead eyes and corpse like skin. Of course, she understood, for Badb's mother was the fertility of blood spilled upon the battlefield. Her father was the killing blows of war. She who was born of war's price of death would be able to walk the secret paths into Hel's land. Sif thought of the ways between ways then, and her heart jumped when she thought of Loki and his spells, and then Thor above, fighting for his brother's soul . . .

She would not be one to question a gift from the sisters of fate, Sif decided. Her eyes turned fierce as her heart rekindled with the heat of the battle to come. "Thor fights the dragon," she said, her voice taking on the tone of general and commander. War wrung in her veins, flowing from her the same as it did from the women who had saved her. "We must aid him."

"Indeed," Anann's voice was an arrow, slung back from a quiver. "Here, sister," she bid then, reaching over from her own mount to pass a leading line to Sif. The leather lead was warm in Sif's hand when she took it, and it led back to one of the riderless hippogryphs.

She looked back to the mare that was being offered to her, and felt her heart seize when she recognized the dappled grey mare she had first spied in the heard, back what felt like an eternity ago. She remembered this mare – remembered the way the sun had shone on the highs points of the white splotches in her coat, remembered the way the canyon shadows had darkened the charcoal shades in the low points of her. The mare flew forward when called, hovering right next to Badb's mount.

"Gísl," Macha gave the name of the mare. "And a wise choice you made."

"I did not know that I chose," Sif said; her eyes greedy, her fingers tight.

"Your eyes chose," Macha tapped her own brow. "Your heart knew, as did Gísl's. It is a right match." Macha then gestured over to the last mare they had with them – a white and fierce looking creature who threw her head and neighed to where she could hear the dragon strike above. While the body of the hippogryph was all white and gleaming, her mane and tail was a brilliant shade of gold. The startling shade was one Sif had seen on no mount before, seemingly spun from dwarfish thread to give her the gleam of beaten metal. She threw her head arrogantly, as if she knew of her beauty, and her dark eyes flashed with the sound of the storms above. "And Gullfaxi is a brute of a mare. She shall be right matched with the Thunderer." Macha scowled. "I am glad that she will no longer be terrorizing my herd." Her words were cross, but her eyes were fond on the mare.

Sif's smile was sharp as she gathered herself in order to make the switch from Badb's mount to her own. She took a breath, and ignored their high place in the sky in order to leap nimbly over to Gísl's back. The mare flew steady and straight, not so much as flinching at the weight of her new rider. Instead, she nickered softly, and Sif could feel the seiðr in the creature's soul as she found her center and her seat. The mare under her was powerful and poised, an ancient elegance in her bones that went beyond anything Sif had ever experienced before.

She threaded the reins through her fingers. Still she was sodden, soaked to the bone, and the great currents of air that the hippogryph's wings created chilled her. Náströnd hollered, but no longer did the sound of it bear teeth. It had no fangs.

Above them, the dragon continued to roar.

"Shall we?" Anann asked wryly when Sif had settled.

And Sif urged Gísl forward. "We shall."

They ate up the distance between the bottom and the top of the fall of Hvergelmir as easy as breathing, and Sif fought against the urge to lose herself in the thrill of riding her winged horse. Instead, she unsheathed her glaive once more, and narrowed her eyes for the fight ahead. Her left hand felt bare without her shield to grasp, as if she wore no armor at all and every part of her was vulnerable and open.

The lip of Níðhöggr's prison loomed before them.

They crested . . .

To the sight of flames.

The battle had progressed then, Sif thought with a drop to her stomach. Within the flames, lightning traveled in broad spirals, as if the flames were clouds enough to hold the fury of Thor's storms. The storms just kept _building_ , Sif thought, her stomach twisting at the sight of Thor's might. It was rare when her friend was moved to strike so in battle. As it was, she could think of no other time when she had seen the storms rage so tempestuously from the first son's hands. The storms grew and grew and _grew_ until Thor was nothing more than an electric blue spear in the center of the storms, conducting the lightning as it bent and built and struck all around him. Her bones trembled with the taste of thunder in the air. She could feel the static as it built, she could hear the pressure of it as a popping noise in her ears.

She heard Thor roar from within the storm's eye – a terrible and great sound, more than enough to match the dragon as he unleashed all of his considerable fury upon the wyrm. And such a fury it was; fury for the loss he had thought she had suffered, fury for the loss that would come to his brother were he to fail in slaying the dragon.

And Níðhöggr merely laughed.

From the storm's striking point, the dragon consumed the lightning. Blue flames forked at his mouth when he breathed the storms in. The glow reflected from his eyes as he exhaled with a storm of his own – flames, yellow and hot and all consuming as he played with the Thunderer his own game. They were matched in that manner, Thor and the wyrm, as they were both born from Múspellsheimr's great might. Her eyes spied out Níðhöggr's massive jaws, and was immediately relieved to see her shield still lodged in the wyrm's sharp fangs. The steel was glowing, the light pouring off of it like the storms that snapped on the face of the sun, but coldly set. The icy blue light seemed to corrupt Níðhöggr's skin, she saw, curious. Starting at her shield, long lines spider-webbed and cracked about the dragon's lip and beak, like frostbite and cold sores, mapping out a weakness on the dragon's scales for one who knew where to push.

But her curiosity was cut short by the sound of fury that then poured from Thor's mouth. It was a desperate cry, angry and pained, and her heart ached with the echo of it. In her hand, her glaive was ready and the war in her veins was hot. She trembled, the whole of her called to arms behind the Thunderer at his call.

"He will not draw a victory this way," Anann said then, hovering in the air besides Sif. "His storms can do naught against the wyrm."

If not by playing to his strengths, then how . . . Sif thought wildly. Hel had mentioned fire and ice, but they bore only fire in their souls, nothing more.

. . . _if only Loki_ , her mind started the thought before she chopped it off at its head. Such thoughts had no place in battle. Especially in a battle that was about to turn their way.

Níðhöggr tilted his massive head, looking with his glazed pupils out of reflex, even though his eyes were blind to all around him. His forked tongue tasted the air. Thor, offended by the dragon's loss of attention, swung with Mjölnir, but Níðhöggr merely flicked him away.

And then, Níðhöggr stilled.

"Daughter's of War," his voice cut through the flames, extinguishing them. His mad eyes swiveled, the glaze over his pupils parting to reveal a carrion red so deep that it burned. "Níðhöggr can smell you – all of you." Again his forked tongue tasted. "Shepherdess . . . Herdswoman . . . Reaper . . . _Týrdottir_. . . Dost thou know how thy blood sings to Níðhöggr? How thy blood beats and beckons and strikes as a blow to Níðhöggr's senses . . ."

At the words from Níðhöggr, Thor's gaze snapped from the battle before him, and over to the crest of Hvergelmir's fall. There was such a hope upon his face, and then such a relief, his smile wide and splitting his countenance from ear to ear. He was covered in soot, and his armor was scorched, but the look in his eyes was enough to make all right for a moment. Sif nodded her head to him, sharing his relief as her own.

They both lived, but with the dragon standing before them . . .

They were back where they had started.

The realization was a dagger at Sif's heart, sharper than any of the dragon's blows thus far. She ached with it. And Níðhöggr _laughed_. The sound traveled up and down her bones. She could feel it in the deepest parts of her.

"Flames and steel," Níðhöggr mocked. "Long have Níðhöggr's scales suffered the blows of such. Strike now, and find thy end as those who have come before."

Níðhöggr inhaled deeply, his mad eyes alight.

Sif felt warning spike in her chest. "Take cover!" was Anann's useless order – for already were the arest of them darting for the concealment of the roots. The same trenches where Sif had tried to strike from earlier were now their protection as Níðhöggr bathed his prison in flames. She could feel the heat of it, sticking beneath the hot metal of her armor, and drying her where she had still been left cold and wet from Hvergelmir's might.

In that moment, she missed her shield. The loss was a pang to her.

But the shadow of the roots around them held them away from the inferno. The Mórrigan huddled together, the great wings of their hippogryphs tucking close to their bodies in order to share the small space around them. From where Sif had folded her body, presenting her back and the metal there to the flames, she felt Thor's hand, strong on her shoulder as the flames died away. Níðhöggr backed from the destruction he had wrought, and roared, scenting the air for a trace of them. They had but moments before he would find them.

But moments they would take.

"I am glad that you live, my friend," was the only indulgence allowed to them as Thor's large hand squeezed, his gratitude easy to read from the deepest part of his eyes. He never made any attempt to hide what he was feeling – in any circumstance, and this was no different.

Sif lifted her hand to cover his own, for just a moment, before letting the touch fall away.

Thor then turned to the Mórrigan, sheltered alongside them. "I thank-you for the gift of her soul," Thor inclined his head. His eyes asked questions, but he had not the time to see them answered. "And I am grateful for any assistance that you would provide today."

"Níðhöggr is an old foe," Anann said, her eyes striking in the shadows that concealed them. "And this is a fight that should not have been yours for many years to come."

"Better to fight the dragon now, instead of when the whole Mother is falling apart during the Twilight, no?" Thor's tongue was thick with a black humor.

Anann sighed, her shoulders made heavy by prophesy and its weight. "You are still such a boy to take up arms against an ancient thing. And it was an impetus that was unearned that pushed you down this path." It was not quite an apology on the Mórrigan's tongue, but it was the promise of one later, once the dragon lost his fanged bite and had his flames extinguished deep within his mouth.

And Thor took it as such. He turned to the matter at hand, and asked, "How was he defeated last time?"

"It was a group effort," Anann's mouth was grim when she gave her answer. "Three dozen of Odin's finest warriors took up a arms against the dragon, along with a dozen more of Álfheimr's strongest mages. And then, we were aided by War and Death - Lord Týr and Lady Hel herself."

Sif winced, remembering what Thor had said about his vision from the night before. "Is that all?" still she asked wryly.

"Even with such a war party, your Lord Father walked away without his left hand," Macha's tongue was sharp with her words as she breathed that part of the tale to Sif.

Anann slanted cross eyes over to her second. "That is useless information, sister."

Macha's eyes were wicked. "I merely wished to tell them to keep their fingers tucked. It is advice given for their own good."

Anann sighed. Deeply. "Even then, that was enough only to bind Níðhöggr," she said, ignoring her second. "We had not the keys to slay him. Keys which I see you have before you now." She gestured to the sword of Ivaldi, still held tight in Thor's hands.

And Thor's look turned dark. "It is a useless blade. It does naught against the dragon's scales."

Sif bit her tongue. She did not believe that it was the blade, so much as the wielder who was at fault. Hel had spoken of fire and ice both as the keys needed to unlock the blade's might. The blade was fire . . . they needed only ice.

Ice . . .

"Odinson," Anann's voice was tired, drawn from the deepest parts of her, "your eyes are as blind as Níðhöggr's."

Thor started, his eyes alight at Anann's words, and Sif placed her hand on his forearm to prevent violence from erupting in their hiding place. Now was not the time. Thor's fist clenched, but he calmed. "Tell me then, what is it that I am to see?" he bade Anann though clenched teeth. His eyes burned, but he would listen, she knew. Sif's fingers tightened, making dents in the leather of his armor.

And the Mórrigan's first cord was quick to answer. "Balance," Anann breathed her reply in the same reverent way Hel had. " _Balance_ , in this and in all things. You are such a flame, Thunderer, and the weapon in your hand is born of the storm's might. But it is fire _and_ ice that are needed. You must draw upon all of creation to see such an elemental being done away with."

"You yourself say I am naught but a flame," and Thor's brow was furrowed, for he truly was trying to unlock the riddle in his mind. "How then can I achieve the balance that you so ask for?"

And, finally, Anann's look was soft."You need not only look to yourself, mighty though you are. In that too, there is balance to be found."

Thor pondered upon her words for only a moment before his fierce look turned at the corners. It dipped. "Loki . . .," he finally said. "My brother is not here. He does not fight alongside me."

At the words, Sif felt something deep inside of her knot, as if a fist had closed over her insides. And then, inspiration hit her, short and hard like a blow to the head. "He does not need to be!" Sif exclaimed then, turning to peer past their hiding place to where Níðhöggr was angrily tossing his head.

Thor turned to her, his brow puzzled. There was an old light in Anann's eyes. The light of expectancy . . . and anticipation.

"Sif?" Thor questioned, urging her to explain her thought.

"My shield," she said, her excitement leeching into her voice – slipping forward from her very bones. "It is made of Loki's magic. And the enchantments he laid were those born from ice. You yourself said that they were some of the most powerful enchantments you have ever struck against – look now how it wounds Níðhöggr!"

"It is a weakness about his mouth," Thor protested. "It is not enough to land a killing blow."

"Your blade will be able to strike through where my shield has weakened with ice," Sif gave her theory. "If the dragon were to consume my shield . . ." Her voice tapered off as she thought about that, truly thought about that. It was not such a simple thing that she spoke of. It would be no simple venture to carry out. It was daring and risky and the idea of it set her heart thundering, fit to match the spring and its tumbling fall from beyond them.

Thor's eyes were hard, but he did not try to dissuade her. "It will be no easy task," he warned, his words an echo of her thoughts.

"No, it shall not," Sif agreed, her eyes slipping past their hiding spot to where the fires were cooling, blown away by Náströnd's cold winds. Níðhöggr hollered. He challenged. But he did not exhale again. The fires were still trapped inside of his mouth. Waiting.

And her eyes found her shield, pulsing and angry with the seiðr within. It called to her . . .

Her hand fisted over her glaive. Her eyes were stones in her face. "I can do this," was all she said to her lord and friend, and Thor nodded. He trusted her – he trusted her with his brother's soul, and he trusted her to keep her own soul in tact, at that. And as Thor trusted, Sif trusted the war in her veins to grant her a victory this day as it had on many others.

"I see another missing hand coming to us," Macha chortled upon seeing the look on Sif's face.

Anann reached over to swat her sister's arm in annoyance. "Silence your tongue," she struck with the tone of her words. And then she turned towards the Aesir, steel a promising thing in her gaze. There was a pride there, as well. A pride, and an understanding. "We can provide you cover while you retrieve your shield, and see that it does its work."

Sif dipped her head. "I thank you."

"It is decided, then," Thor's voice boomed once their plan had been set. "Let us move."

"A second more," Anann spoke then, staying him. "I have something that I would gift to you."

And it was then, and only then, that Thor seemed to notice the mighty winged beasts that shared the space with them. Macha's smile turned wane as she passed the reins of the white and golden mare to Thor. "Gullfaxi, this is Thor," Macha introduced the mare first to the prince. "Thor, this is Gullfaxi – and she's a right spoiled brute of a mare. Something tells me you will get along just fine."

Thor's raised brow questioned. For he had struck rather than earned during the Mórrigan's Quest of Proof. But those questions too were for later, and he would not turn away from anything that looked to aid them in a victory.

"I thank-you for this honor," he said, accepting the reins.

Macha inclined her head, and backed away from them, readying herself with her own mare. "Now, shall we?" she asked, as if Thor had been the one delaying them.

Thor snorted, but his seat was sure as he swung himself up onto Gullfaxi's back. "After you," he bowed from his place in the saddle, Mjölnir strong in one hand, and Ivaldi's sword gleaming from the other.

Sif too stood, and took her breath in deep. By her side, Gísl butted her arm, as if sensing her trepidation. Her anticipation. She pressed a hand to her muzzle before taking her place upon the mare's back, readying herself for the charge.

And, beyond them, the dragon challenged. "Níðhöggr never thought his foes to be a troupe of cowards before. Come!" the wyrm roared. "Show thyselves, and stand up tall before Níðhöggr's flames. Níðhöggr can smell thy blood; how it pounds, how it knows fear, and wisely so . . ."

From their hiding place, Mjölnir was a precursor to Thor taking to the winds. The hammer glanced off of the dragon's horn lined skull – a blow that would have been fatal to any other creature made glancing as Níðhöggr responded as it had been a pebble that struck him so. He shook his head, and his fanged mouth grinned, showing his teeth. His laughter was a blooming thing in his throat, pluming as if it were smoke from a flame.

And Thor charged. Again, his blows seemed to be repetitive – trying again and again on a route he knew to lead only to failure. And the dragon humored him, meeting him strike for strike.

Alongside Thor, the Mórrigan were a study in teamed war, Sif observed, watching the way they struck and blocked and attacked, one about the other, until it seemed that all three women were one being. For a moment, Sif was reminded of the Warrior's Three and the way their battles together had made one soul of them upon the field of war.

Níðhöggr growled and swatted, his annoyance showing in every flash of his scales and dip of his claws. His great maw parted in a roar, not to exhale his flames, but to give a toothy grin to the tiny warriors who thought that they could defeat him.

And while Níðhöggr was distracted, Sif was able to slip along the edges of the battle.

Getting her shield back would be the easy part, she knew. It was a simple task to fly in close to Níðhöggr's scales while Thor and the Mórrigan gave the dragon something to really chase. Even when he threw his massive beak back and forth, Sif found that her hippogryph mare seemed to understand as much as her rider did what was needed. She comprehended what was transpiring, unlike a normal steed. Gísl dipped and flew though the air, reading the play of the dragon's scaled muscles in order to move before Sif even had to tell her to do so, allowing her rider to focus on her goal, and her goal alone.

From beyond, she could hear the taunts from her comrades – Macha had a tongue she used as a battering ram, and Thor's thick insults kept the dragon's piqued interest. Anann was more careful with her words, and Badb said nothing at all, but all landed their blows, keeping Níðhöggr's attention from Sif and her shield.

. . . her shield.

She felt as if a missing piece of her slipped back into place when she clasped her hand over the chilled metal. This close to Níðhöggr's skin, she could see where the ice from the weapon had destroyed him. The power of Loki's spells – of Niflheimr's might, found in ice – made the scales crack, made the skin underneath thick as if with frostbite. The ruined areas of Níðhöggr's skin glowed an elemental blue, like the heart of Thor's storms, and the color was as familiar to her as her own breath.

She had to give a mighty tug to release the shield from where it had been lodged between Níðhöggr's fangs, and it was that final flare of strength that had Níðhöggr noticing her.

"Týrdottir," the great wyrm hissed, raising a giant claw in order to bat her away from his mouth. "Foolish are thee, little one, playing with thy warring veins as if thy were made of steel and not flesh and bone."

Sif bared her teeth. "I'm simply here to give you something worthy to fight."

Níðhöggr gave a throaty laugh, the sound jewel toned, like the surf over pebbles as it itched over her skin. "Dost thou proclaim thyself to be above the Thunderer in might? Indeed, thou hast much of Týr's insolence in thee."

"I am proud of my father's seal upon my blood," Sif declared, her shield once again her own, and her winged mount beneath her dodging Níðhöggr's teasing blows. "And from where he watches at Valhalla's golden gates, I know he is proud of how I strike today."

"And what blood hast thou taken?" Níðhöggr mocked. "Nearly thou has drowned, nearly thou has lost thyself to a great and terrible fall – and neither such fate would have been from Níðhöggr's claws. Come now, child, let Níðhöggr take a token in blood as he did from thy lord father."

Sif snarled, her one hand urging in Gísl's mane as she guided the mare towards the ground. They landed, and Sif held her shield before her. She did not bother with her glaive, she did not need it.

Above her, Thor was waiting expectantly, ringed by the Mórrigan, forgotten by Níðhöggr for a moment.

And Sif breathed in deep. "You took from my father a hand, but you have not even been able to take equal of that from me. You are hot air and grand words, Níðhöggr, and I tire of your insolence." Her words challenged. They struck.

The dragon tilted his head, his blind eyes swiveling; red and mad and furious as they narrowed in on where he knew her to be. He saw without sight, but did not see all as she raised her shield high and dared him. "So strike, Níðhöggr, and see if you can take from me my father's equal!"

Such a roar Níðhöggr gave then, mighty and terrible until the bones on the ground around her trembled from Níðhöggr's rage.

"Shield-maiden," the dragon hissed.

" _Wyrm_ ," Sif gave in return, her teeth bared like a hunting wolf, her eyes narrowed and her brow fierce with her challenge.

The dragon dipped his head, and Sif urged her mount to stay still. It was the hardest thing to learn, when to hold and when to flee, and Sif felt every sense in her body urging her to move, to strike . . . but she did neither. She merely held her shield up, and waited.

He thought to take a hand from her as he did her father. But not today . . .

She could smell the rotting scent of corpses. The black breath of things decaying and molded, yellow and thick upon Níðhöggr's fangs.

He came closer.

She held her ground. Her toes were pressed in the points of her boots, keeping the mare beneath her steady.

Níðhöggr's head dipped.

Sif inhaled.

His great jaw opened.

And Sif struck as she exhaled. She tossed her shield with every inch of strength she had inside of her, flinging the enchanted metal up high into the dragon's mouth until the whooshing sound it made canceled out the sound of the dragon's rank breathing.

And her shield lodged itself in the deep parts of his throat.

Níðhöggr's great jaws closed, and Sif moved. Her mount was already one step ahead of her, her great wings flapping and snapping them away from the dragon's bite and further up still to safety.

And then, Sif had to do no more – the dragon's own self would take care of the rest. Níðhöggr coughed, all the great lion with a thorn in his paw as he tried to remove the metal from his airways. He coughed and coughed and coughed. . . and then he swallowed.

And immediately, Sif saw where Loki's spells on her shield flared quick and angry.

Over the dragon's skin, a bright and terrible web started to appear. Where Níðhöggr was all shades of jewel and dark moss, the seiðr that broke over his skin was sharp and cold and electric – blue and blazing and coldwith all of the powers that ice and her role in creation had to offer. The lines split through his scales like the pattern that branches made – webbing and spidering until they painted a map over Níðhöggr's massive body.

And Níðhöggr's carrion eyes were wide. "What sort of trickery is this?"

Sif's grin was sharp when she backed away from the wyrm – for this was not her blow to take. Instead, Thor stepped up, Mjölnir resting at his side, and Ivaldi's sword pulsing and awake in his hands – aflame and alight next to the kindred spells that tore through the dragon. "There is no trickery, Níðhöggr," Thor declared, his voice solemn as he gave his death sentence. "Only your end."

Finally, Níðhöggr snapped into action, as if understanding just how great his predicament was. He inhaled, and Sif knew that this time it would be no simple fire that he called forth from his throat. But Thor was quicker, and his aim was true – he sent Ivaldi's sword flying through the air, aiming for where the web of seiðr had gathered in a massive shatter point upon Níðhöggr's chest . . . over his heart. The hulking organ beneath skin and scales was slow and pulsing as it gave the blue lines about the dragon their flutter and their light.

The wyrm's eyes widened -

\- and Thor struck true.

All about them, it was as if a great breath had been released from the land. Níðhöggr gave a mighty cry, the sound as a tree falling in the deep woods, the same as the roar of the burning mountains as they spewed their flames to the heavens above. It was a pained sound, a deep sound that tore behind Sif's lungs, as if to take her very pulse and breath along with his death screams.

Náströnd rumbled and roared – the waters of the great spring clashed, and the sounds of the tortured souls from behind reached a fevered pitch as the sky pitched black and unfriendly above them. And in the middle of the chaos, Thor stood with his storms, and watched the dragon die with unpitying eyes.

And then, that breath was Níðhöggr's last.

Like that, the fevered pitch that had overtaken the land ceased. The great winds quieted. The waters calmed. The souls from beyond them lost their voice. In the wind, the World Tree shook, as if straightening her boughs after losing the weight that had been pressing against her roots, paining her.

All was silence and light around them. Sif sat with her chest heaving and her eyes wide, regaining her breath. _We did it_ , was the single thought that her mind could produce, over and over again.

"We did it," she whispered, her fists clenched still over Gísl's reins, as if her tight grip alone would be enough to anchor her. Her heart was still thundering, both disbelief and relief poignant and warring within her.

 _They did it_.

"By Odin's beard, but they actually did it," Macha breathed when Thor trotted over to them, as pleased as a hound at the end of a hunt. He wore an endless grin, restless with his stride as the adrenaline from the battle still rattled in his veins.

"Did you ever doubt?" Thor beamed proudly. "It was the son of Odin who took his hunt. No other outcome could have resulted from our quest this day!"

"We knew not one moment of concern," Macha lied smoothly, her brow raised mockingly, and this time it was Badb who elbowed their second, her brow lifting as she called the other out on her falsehood.

Shaking her head, Anann left both of her sisters in order to walk over to the spring of Hvergelmir. There was a calm pool where the bone strewn shore cut away from the raging tide, and there she knelt down in order to dip a glass vial into the still water, claiming what they had quested so vigilantly for.

"The heart," Anann reminded Thor, her voice gentle. "Hel will wish to see it."

"Of course," Thor's mouth twisted into a grin, full of teeth as he turned to the dragon again.

And her shield, Sif would too see returned to her, she thought as she dismounted from her mare. Gísl stood dutifully to the side, awaiting her order with her large eyes unblinking and her hooves pawing the uneven ground.

At the same time Thor started his climb up the wyrm's corpse, Sif put a hand to the dragon's clawed feet, and nimby swung herself up. Finding hand holds and footholds over the massive scales, she climbed up and up further still until she stood upon the dragon's massive stomach. Under her boots, half of the dragon's scales were molten to the touch. The other half were as cold as the glaciers in the north of Jötunnheimr. The wyrm had been torn apart by the elemental forces of creation, and where he had once breathed death and destruction and decay, fire and ice now flourished in his place.

Sif closed her eyes when she reached the summit of her climb, and concentrated on that spark inside of her that lived as a result of Loki's magic. She focused, and imagined that that spark was an ember she was stoking to life. In answer, a warm cord seemed to wrap around her heart, its other end tied to her shield, resting deep in the dragon's gut.

She inhaled. Her eyes opened.

And she struck her glaive down. It was choppy work, and it was messy, making her way to where her shield was, but she was determined, and the sliver of magic she had anchoring her made her path assured, her route absolute. Below, Macha was watching her with a grimace at the mess she was making. Opposite Sif, Thor too carved out Níðhöggr's massive heart, the still organ big enough to challenge all three of the Mórrigan when carrying it back to Hel and her hall. Still, both took their trophies of their victory.

Finally, Sif could see a glow from further beneath her. Her shield was not far.

And from beyond her, Thor called, "It is a pity that my brother missed this battle, is it not, milady? Such a challenge I have not had face me in all of my battles yet! How it has lifted the spirits and boosted the pride."

Sif stabbed though that last length of tissue and muscle. She struck metal. Her grin hooked, triumphant and sharp when she reached down to brush the gore away from the face of her shield. The sticky blood coated her like an embrace – it caught in her hair, upon her armor and her skin, and with a slippery glove she reached up to push her long bangs away, leaving a smear of organic matter across her forehead. She made a face. "Something tells me that Loki would not have rejoiced in being knee deep in dragon blood," she countered Thor's opinion, easily imagining his look of distaste he would have worn at the mess they were making.

Thor chuckled. The sound was warm, filling her heart. "Perhaps you are right."

Her shield was hers once more, and in her hand, the steel pulsed and glowed. Its song was one she felt behind her eyes, in the deep parts of her, behind her bones, and as always, she embraced its melody. She let it fill her.

With a slick step, she slid back down the dragon's corpse, and landed on the bone strewn floor with a dull thud. Beside her, Thor too landed.

Sif walked the few steps to the spring, to where Anann was already corking a vial of the Underwater, and singing a chant under her breath – rendering the healing water complete. She knelt down on the bank next to the other woman, and placed her shield in the still water that had gathered in order to let the water wash the dragon's blood away. Her hands too were washed clean in the spring, and Sif stared at her bronze shield in the clear water, feeling a peace rise up to fill her very soul. They had done it. Their fight was over, and Loki's soul was now safe. She could not keep a smile from her face at the thought, and in her heart, the beat of home and its call was a promising song, one she wished to give in to with their return.

Anann handed Sif the vial, and she accepted it as if it were made from gold and precious stones, so very dear was the water within to her.

"Please know that I did not strike with the aim to destroy," Anann then said to Thor, her voice hollow and grave. "Where an end was almost wrought, know that I simply sought to show you something fundamental about yourself – that the bond that you share with your second will and can be the thing that may someday tear prophesy asunder. Know that I have felt war in its every form upon every realm . . . and it was to someday save a life that his was almost taken."

Thor inclined his head, taking Anann's words and acknowledging them. He said nothing, though, as if his words were too thick to be voiced. For Anann had almost taken a slight to far, but it had been rightly earned and fought for due to Thor's initial deeds. While Sif still felt a rise in her blood at the thought of the poison that had taken from Loki his breath, she no longer let it consume her. She understood, as they all did.

"The mounts are yours to keep," Anann said then, as they walked back to the hippogryphs, still waiting at the base of the dragon's corpse.

And that brought a reaction from the first son. Thor's face flushed, the high parts of his cheeks turning pink in remembered shame. "It would not be right," he said, his voice turning, as if pained. "I took where I should have protected. I struck with thought of a prize when I should have stayed my hand out of respect for those things that are sacred. I was rash, and I payed the price for my insolence. That is not something that should be rewarded."

Anann's look was so very soft at that moment, her eyes like the morning sun as it broke over the horizon. "And it is for that spirit within you that I know I leave those of my sister's herd in safe hands. You earned these, more so than most, and the lessons you learned here will be with you throughout your days. Believe me when I say that I leave these with no more worthier warriors."

And then, the center cord of the Mórrigan bowed. She took to her knee, and inclined her head, the bow deep with her respect. Badb too mirrored her sister's motions. Macha waited a heartbeat before doing the same, and while her words may have been sharp her hand over her chest swore her truths. It was not a vow she would mock, or swear it when she did not feel it to be real.

And Thor stood there, his eyes wide, and his cheeks flushed even darker than before.

"Someday, when your father has entered his final sleep, you will be king," Anann said, her voice thick, as with prophesy. "And while Odin's reign has been great, too dark are the edges of his kingship steeped in shadows. You will be a light after your father's time, Odinson. You will bring back to Mother Yggdrasil her spring, and when that day comes, we will serve you loyally when you call. This I swear . . .. and thank you for. Many are those who wait for such a day. Believe me when I say that all of the Mother's elemental things look to you . . . and know hope."

Thor stood straight for a moment, the dragon a dead thing behind him, and the cold spring of creation a source of life before him. And then, he bowed as well, low and deep from the waist. "You honor me with your words, and with your allegiance," he said, his voice catching in his throat before making its way off of his tongue. Often, he had seen warriors give such oaths to his lord father, but this was the first that such was sworn to him. As such, he treasured the words as they were spoken.

Anann bowed her head once more as she got to her feet, her hand tight on the staff of her shepherd's hook. "And I have one more thing to beget to you." She walked to the side of her own hippogryph. She placed her staff on the ground, and it stayed standing even when her hand was drawn away. And, from the saddlebags, she drew away a wrapped bundle, straight and tall.

Thor's brow was creased in curiosity, and even Sif stepped forward in her wondering, her left hand still tight over the corked vial Anann had given to her.

Her bundle was wrapped in a thick blue velvet. And when she drew away the cord holding it, both Thor and Sif exhaled upon seeing what was within.

Horns.

Two of them, great and curving and proud from where they had once stood on the hippogryph stallion's brow. Rare it was that such fell, and nearly never by an opposing hand. Thor had struck without head for mercy, and after the lesson learned and the path to fix what he had rendered asunder taken, he now had the trophy he had originally thought to seek.

Thor's breath was caught in his mouth. "I cannot . . ." he said, again.

And Anann raised her brow. "Your worth was proved," she said simply. "And while Macha's herd may have mourned the loss, I would not see such a specimen go to waste. Take it, as a token of our allegiance to you."

Thor reached out, and ran a large hand over the curving bend of the one horn. Seemingly delicate from afar, under his hand they were strong and unyielding; proud and defiant. And Thor nodded his head. "I thank you for allowing me this."

Anann inclined her head, but said no more.

Macha watched the Thunderer with a quirked brow. "It will be a lovely addition to Odin's halls," she said. "It can go on display between the Allfather's missing eye, and the ashes from Nal's funeral pyre."

And Thor shook his head. "Nay, Herdswoman, I have a much more nobler place for these to sit."

Sif looked at her friend in curiosity, but his face gave nothing away to her. Instead, his mouth quirked, as if pleased by an innermost thought. Sif merely smiled and shook her head at Thor's play at secrecy. In time, she would know. Until then, they had a gift to grant to Hel, and a journey to make back to Asgard.

And then, Loki would open his eyes, and all would be well and right in Sif's corner of the realm . . .

With that, she walked back to her mare, and once again took her seat upon Gisl's back. The mare nickered in welcome, as if they had already been partnered together for years. Sif smiled at the bond she already had with the warhorse, for her current mount had been in service to Lady Gná before Sif had even been born, and she knew that Hófvarpnir would be glad for the respite.

And Thor too stepped forward to take the reins of his hippogryph. The arrogant mare tossed her golden mane, and stomped indignantly at the bone strewn floor with her dainty hooves. In return, Thor made a face at the mare when she drew her lips back, showing her teeth. He mirrored the look, nonsense neighing noises on his tongue until Gullfaxi stepped back a pace, looking at him, perplexed. When next she neighed, it sounded like laughter. Her wings bent, held up and close, welcoming the Thunderer to her back.

"I said they would be well suited," Macha said wryly. "The brutes."

Anann smiled and shook her head, her words silent where none would do as she too took her seat upon her mare. Badb was a soundless shadow behind them all, mirroring them.

And then, to Hel's hall they turned once more.

.

.

The Hall of Éljúðnir seemed to pulse with a new light as Sif and Thor winded through the gleaming black wings of the palace to once again stand in Hel's throneroom. Behind them, the Mórrigan were a threefold shadow, keeping their pace, and following their turns as if the way was already known to them. Someday, Sif knew, there would be such a story there to hear, if they would honor them with the tale.

When they arrived, Hel was not straight and severe upon her throne, as Sif expected her to be. Instead she was standing, her hands clasped behind her back, and her stride curving towards them as if she had been pacing. There were dozens of glass like globes in the air, scry's bubbles, each a window into Náströnd, and Sif knew then that there had been more than one eye upon them as they took their pound of flesh from the dragon.

"I could feel it the moment that Níðhöggr breathed his last," Hel revealed. "A part of this land, long dormant, began to breathe again; and the Great Mother herself raised her boughs that much higher when the weight upon her roots was released. Do you not hear it?" Death asked them as her mouth, both decaying and living, curved into such a grin. "Yggdrasil _sings_ , and she sings her ode to _you_."

Sif could not hear the song, but she could feel the crackle of seiðr against her skin – her veins pulsed and her bones seemed to hum with the weight of the World Tree's approval around them. She wondered, then, if Loki could hear the words Yggdrasil chanted, deep within his stasis. She felt a pang at the thought, and an entirely different thrum took up its residence in her veins. The sharp twist of expectancy and impatience, ready as she was for her home and Loki's eyes, open and healthy and whole . . .

Thor's face was creased with pleasure at Hel's words. His smile was grand, golden and bright in the dark shades of Éljúðnir. Still, he bowed and gestured to behind him, where all three of the Mórrigan had been needed to drag Níðhöggr's still heart before the dread Queen.

"I present to you, the heart of the Root-wyrm, and the fulfillment of our promise," Thor said, the words roll and rite where Sif already held a vial of the Underwater in her hand, ready to be poured.

Hel inclined her head in turn to the Thunderer, completing the ritual. "And I thank-you, in behalf of my realm and every other. You have struck such a blow against the future today, Odinson, such a blow; and someday, I hope to see the rest of prophesy turns to ash in your hands." She bowed even lower then, the great stag like horns upon her helm dipping with her motion.

When she straightened, she looked past Thor to where the Mórrigan stood in a half circle around Níðhöggr's heart, and she inclined her head to the women of war. The sisters had taken one knee upon the dread Queen's gaze, their heads bowed deeply, a word not even to be found on Macha's lips out of a respect for the things that did reign higher than them all.

Sif bounced the weight on the balls of her feet. In her hand, the water in the vial sloshed like a promise.

And Hel gestured to the wrapped bundle under Thor's right arm with her dead hand, and asked. "What also did you find to take from Náströnd?" she asked, her voice piqued with curiosity.

Thor shook his head. "Nothing from Náströnd, my lady," he answered her. "Instead, a gift from the sisters you see here before you, in behalf of a folly, once wronged, and now righted."

Hel raised her right brow, the living side of her face showing the expression acutely. She did not have to ask before Thor was taking a knee once more, not out of the rituals of the court, but rather to show to the Hel-queen his prize. He placed his bundle carefully down on the star strewn floor, and with near reverent hands, he undid the cords that held the cloth over the items within.

And he withdrew one of the two horns, holding the curving thing as if it were a great treasure that he had long been seeking for. "Once, they stood upon the brow of the stallion I slew," Thor said, explaining the horn's significance to her. "Now the creature is no more, but this quest and the one that spurned from it are a weight to my mind – one I hope I never forget."

Sif found her smile turn wry, seeing what Thor saw symbolized by the sweeping horns. Her gaze was fond on her friend, proud of the conclusion of their deeds.

Hel, though, had hardly to nod at Thor's words. Instead, the queen was very still, as if she were a tree, rooted to the deep parts of her realm. Her chest scarce rose with her breath, and her eyes had yet to blink. Within her face, they were very green and very bright. Her mouth was open, just slightly, and that was the only reaction that Hel gave upon seeing the horns.

Slowly, she moved forward then, her living hand held outwards as if to touch. Across from Thor, Hel took to her knees in order to kneel before the horns. There was a weight in her eyes then, like memory, as she reached out a single finger. She touched the right horn first, tracing the high curve and the long sweep in a gentle, reverent motion, before closing her entire hand about the base. It fit perfectly into her palm, and her eyes flickered.

"It is a great prize indeed that you take," Hel said, her voice heavy, her words weighed with a shape that Sif could not place. Thor too looked curiously at the queen, seeing as clear as Sif did the way her words creased in longing.

"You have seen these before?" Thor asked, piercing through to Hel's words more quickly than Sif.

And Hel gave a dry sound, not quite a laugh. "A long, long time ago," she answered. "In a time that no longer is."

Thor's brow furrowed. His face was downward turned, but his eyes looked up, finding the woman before him in his gaze. "I am sorry for your loss," he said, his voice soft, his words kind. His hands were fisted by his sides, as if he fought the urge to reach out and touch her. Always had legend told the half-alive queen to be untouchable and distant, but Thor seemed to be held in the same thrall Sif was before her – he wanted the best for the dread queen. He wanted to sooth pains and ease wrongs, and did he too feel the weight in his chest that Sif felt upon looking into her eyes?

Around her, Éljúðnir seemed to close in tight around them, always an embrace where those before her had spoken of it as a blow. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

Carefully, Thor kept his great limbs still at his sides. He did not reach out to the queen, but still Hel breathed in deep, as if releasing a weight. "And I am happy for what you stand to gain," was what she said, dropping her hands away from the horn, and standing in a graceful motion. Garmr was instantly by her side, close enough to touch, ready to give her a hand should she so need it. Sif saw the concern in his eyes. She saw the way his body was a shadow and arch to Hel's, and for a moment she knew a form of closure, knowing that the other had a shoulder to lean against under the weight of Helheimr and its duties.

Sif's breath came easier, but only just.

Hel too breathed in deep, and then her eyes were closed; a shadow falling. "Come now," she said. "I can feel the second son's soul, and it flickers." She turned to Garmr, and said, "Allow good Heimdall to see a path for them. Our guests wish to return home." When she caught their gazes, she gave a wry grin. "You need not go back the way you came."

Sif felt seiðr gather around them; and like a ray of sunlight after a storm, she could feel her brother's gaze rest upon her. Upon feeling it as so, she felt anticipation light in her lungs, making her breath come hot. Home, they were almost _home_.

Thor bowed his head. "We thank you, my lady."

Hel returned the gaze, her eyes soft. "And I wish you a safe journey."

Thor smiled, and that was all that was needed for him. He was ready to go. Sif, though, found herself slow to lean into the energy she could feel gathering around her. A moment more, she prayed to Heimdall, and turned to the dread-queen once more. She could feel words gather on her tongue, but she was ill at ease to push them past her lips. She wished to speak, to say so many things, but she was unsure just how to shape her words.

Hel seemed to understand, and instead of speaking, she reached out and took both of Sif's hands in her own. If asked before, Sif would have thought it odd to feel bone and deadened skin against her own flesh. But there was no discomfort, only a strange sort of peace as she returned the touch. Her grasp was firm, and her eyes were weights, saying what her mouth could not say.

"Until next time," Hel said softly, the quirk of her mouth both familiar and not as Sif stared at it, trying to deign its origin to her. But she had no more time, and when her hands fell away, Sif felt as if a tether had been broke. Still, there was a promise and an assurance in the dread-queen's eyes, and Sif tucked it close and held it away. It was enough.

Upon her, Heimdall's gaze lingered as a weight between her shoulder-blades. It called, and Sif felt home pulling at her bones, at her very veins. In her hands, the water from the Underway pulsed. It called and sang and gave a promise that soon would be collected upon.

Thor came to her side, and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. The weight, as always, was an assurance.

And then rings of jewel toned light surrounded them, pulling them as a planet did to a moon, and Sif let herself fall away. She let the path to home take her, even as she stared through the rainbowed light, focusing on the Hel-queen's green _green_ eyes until she could no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tyr's Loss of Hand** : Technically, he lost his hand when binding Fenrir, in the myths, but who is keeping track at this point? ;)
> 
>  **Gísl** : In the Gylfaginning, Gísl was listed as one of the horses whom the Aesir rode to make their judgments at the Yggdrasil, but she was never assigned to a specific deity, so, I gave her to Sif here.
> 
>  **Gullfaxi** : Was the name of one of Thor's horses in the myths. Her name translates to 'golden mane', and she was renowned for – you guessed it – her gleaming mane and tail, and her ability to run just as fast over water and air as she was able to over land. In the myths, Thor gave the horse to his son, Magni, whom he had fathered with the giantess Járnsaxa, as a symbol of his pride and favor. Of course, Thor had to bear through Odin's disapproval for gifting the steed to the son of a Jötunn woman, and not to his own lord father. Which is just another example of the pot calling the kettle black, seeing as how Thor's own mother (Fjörgyn) was Jötunn. And Odin's own mother (Bestla) was Jötunn as well if we want to go further back. So . . . seriously, Odin? You just wanted another pretty horsie. ;)


	14. with our battle cries and gleaming helms

Throughout her centuries, certain things had become as rote to her as breathing.

Sif knew it all. She knew the twist and pull of her body on the river of the bifröst's magic through the cosmos. She knew the shape of Yggdrasil's branches dancing in the stars, for as heavy as a lady adorned with gold and jewels was the Great Mother and her swaying limbs. The cosmos shuddered, it gleamed and glowed and whispered its secrets into her ears, and one had to listen carefully in order to hear it over the great roar of the Way they raced through. The rush of time and space was a crescendo, ever growing. The song of the Mother was whispered as a lullaby, softly spoken into her children's ears.

As they sped through the stars, she could feel Heimdall's eyes on her. She could feel the gravity of Asgard as if she was a wave being pulled to the shoreline, being reclaimed from the horizon. Home was a thick undertow in the sea of space and time, and long had she known the dance of swaying before finally giving into its pull.

When the prismed shaft of light released them - the rainbow tones of the bridge dissolving into the warm gold and bronze of the Observatory and the steel and mossy blue-green of the foaming sea beyond - Sif released a breath she had not realized she had been holding. In her hand, she held the water of the Underway in a vice like grip, as if anything less would have seen all they had fought for turn to dust in her hand, useless.

They hit the floor of Heimdall's Observatory running, she and Thor. Her brother did not to stop their way, and the sound of the sword of the byway sliding against its golden sheath was as loud as the crackle of energy that still loitered after their journey. Both thundered. Both heralded.

She felt the flicker of unblinking eyes on her, as golden and as cold as the gleaming light that they had just traveled through, before the gaze looked away again.

When they reached the palace, she ignored the surprised sounds of the grooms when they saw their new winged mounts alongside those they had departed with. There were whispers of awe upon seeing two mares of a young generation of hippogryphs, and as if knowing of the eyes on her Gullfaxi threw her head, and neighed arrogantly to the small crowd that had gathered. At any other time, Sif would have found her smile and her humor within her at the sight, but not now, not yet, not when . . .

The Hall of Eir was quiet when they arrived, shaded in a welcoming half light. The flickering torches set off the warm golden tones of the gilded walls, and the long banners boasting of the Allfather's name fluttered softly in the soothing breeze that took up residence next to the matron healer's spirit.

Loki was where they had left him, still swathed in the golden spells that kept to him his stasis. The fluttering lights made gilded patterns on his skin. The shades danced, shifting from bronze to yellow and then to the palest of gold until the second son looked to be something struck from a dwarf's hammer rather than something built out of flesh and bone. Next to Loki's bedside was the Allmother, and the Queen Frigg looked as if she had not slept for even one of the nights during which they had been gone. Her lovely brown eyes were shadowed, and the gleam that normally sat upon her cheeks and within her hair was gone, leaving her as a colorless shade, near as wane as her son.

But a look of such relief split over her face when she saw them. For the first time in far too long, Frigg breathed in deep a breath she had been denying to herself when it had been unknown whether or not her youngest would live to breathe again. "Thank Yggdrasil eternal," Frigg gave her prayers to the things higher than them, coming to stand as Sif and Thor ran forward. Her eyes traced over them – pausing on where they were still coated in dragon's blood and the mire of Náströnd, before continuing on to see the vial in Sif's hand, and there her gaze remained.

At the clattering of thick soles and steel – warriors upon healing ground - Eir had slipped forth to meet them, no doubt hearing the ruckus that they had made when speeding through the palace. The half elven woman held out a slender hand, and Sif surrendered the vial she still held. She threaded her fingers together after giving up the water, as if to stay them from moving, for a part of her did trust the vial to anyone else's hands but her own.

While Eir uncorked the vial and made the potion ready, Thor made his way around Loki's sickbed, coming to stand on his brother's right side, sharing his mother's shadow to the left of him. The golden lights danced on his armor and skin as he bent forth to study Loki's face through the waves of golden light that kept to him his slumber, a tenderness in his gaze there for all to see. Sif made her way to Loki's left, careful not to disturb Eir and her work as she rested her hands on the gilded beams that made up his resting place. She was close enough to touch from where she stood, but carefully, she did not. Her heart was as a drum in her chest, beating fiercely to a savage beat, near desperate to escape the fleshly cage that surrounded it.

Then, there was a low hum in Eir's voice, and Sif felt seiðr on the air. It snagged at her bones, it pooled in her veins. Before her, Loki's breath made the golden web of spells above him dance. The light fluttered, it fractured. But it did not fall apart.

And Sif did not breathe.

Eir's fingers were long and graceful as she massaged Loki's throat, getting his still body to swallow out of reflex. He drank all of the water of Niflheimr; the Underwater a bright and piercing shade of cold blue, so out of place in the depths of Asgard and her warm and golden halls. Eir drew her hand away, and while doing so, she chanted, letting the golden mist surrounding Loki dissipate. The spells unraveled, as sure as the morning mist parting before the rising sun, and Sif peered forward to watch her friend as he breathed with his own strength, kept alive by his own might and will rather than by Eir's healing magicks.

Without the golden light granting him the illusion of health, his skin was a sickly shade of white, grey tinted and pallid, like the belly of a dead fish. His closed eyes were like bruises set into his face – purple and sunken into his skin like a wound. His breath was shallow, but still he _breathed_.

And Sif leaned forward, just barely letting her hand touch his own. His skin was cold against hers, but it was not the icy unnaturalness of death. Instead, it was a coolness that was uniquely him. It was a chill she had become long accustomed to over the years.

She bit her lip, and narrowed her gaze so that when he opened his eyes, she would not miss it. She would not miss him returning to her, and all would be well, and -

Loki's gaze snapped open, his eyes wild and wide and so very green as he sucked in a deep breath, filling lungs that had been too still for far too long. His mouth made an open shape, as if to scream, but no sound escaped from him. He coughed then, the sound sore and dry, and Eir was instantly at his side when he sat up quicker than his weak body should have let him, one hand supporting on his back, and the other hand firm upon his arm, growing a soft shade of gold, keeping an eye on his return to them.

As his gagging and shaking subsided, he held a hand up to cradle his head, his body still reeling from the sensation of having been torn apart and then put together from within; the elemental strands within him that creation had sparked with life having been uncorded and then rebraided again in the most violent of ways. "Remind me," he said slowly, his elegant voice wry, scratched and thin from disuse, "never to do that again if you plan on _waking_ me afterward."

Thor gave a strangled sound, deep in his throat. The sound pulled, caught between joy and fear and grief and _we almost lost you_ as Thor gave up the battle within himself to give Loki a moment to put himself back together again.

"Brother!" he exclaimed, the sound of his voice joyous, caught between a laugh and a sob. In Thor's eyes there were unshed tears, the gleam of them made bright in the warm light of Eir's hall. He leaned forward and unceremoniously drew the slimmer man into a bone crushing hug, the awkward angle forgotten as Thor wrapped his arms tight and squeezed for all he was worth – as if anything less would return Loki to the abyss from which they had pulled him from.

"My spine, Thor," Loki protested weakly, his voice thin with the lack of air making it to his lungs. As a master petting a hound, he patted his brother on the shoulder as if to placate him. But his eyes were smiling, giving away that he was pleased. At the sight,` Sif snorted at the sight, the sound wet, catching with her own tears, hot and sharp behind her ears. Try as he may – protest as he might – Loki enjoyed Thor's affections every bit as much as Thor enjoyed giving them, and his words to the otherwise were empty. "You aim to crush it and destroy all of your hard work," Loki said again when Thor had yet to lessen his hold.

Thor pulled back, just enough to let his brother breathe. "Yes, of course," he said then, his cheeks flushing pink as he released him completely.

"Oaf," Loki said, but there was a gentle humor in his voice. Thor smiled even wider at it.

"Snake," the first son returned, the old words as familiar as breathing between the two.

Brushing her firstborn aside, Frigg made her way to Loki next. The queen's smile was radiant, more a crown to her than her golden hair and the jewels that gleamed there. Elegantly, the older woman stooped to embrace her son, such a relief etched onto the lovely planes of her face.

"You foolish, foolish child," Frigg breathed against Loki's hair. Her breath shuddered in her lungs. It caught before she was able to release it. "Your mother is too old to be worrying about her heart in such a way, and I thank you not for reminding me of my age."

Loki closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, breathing in deep as he returned his mother's embrace easier than he did Thor's. His fingers were white and bloodless from where they pressed against the fabric of her dress, as if anchoring himself. And then he let go.

Frigg lingered for a moment longer before pressing a kiss against the tangled mop of his hair when she straightened, as if he were still a child at her knee. Loki made a face at the gesture, but that too was shaped in fondness.

And Sif stood before the family, made whole once more, and found that she could not keep her grin from her face. She smiled until she could feel the cold air on her teeth, the motion of it stretching her skin.

"You gave Thor quite a fright," Sif said when Loki finally turned towards her, the word light and tangled on her tongue where she wished to say more – so much more, and did he knew how right her world now was with his breath returned to his lungs? The light returned to his eyes? Her heart hammered, and she wondered if he could hear that too – if he could know its shape and pulse with his magicks and his sights.

"And you, milady," Loki questioned, "you did not fear for me?" His voice teased. His eyes warmed.

And Sif snorted. "I welcomed the chance to have your place by our side silenced." But the words did not match the joy she could feel radiate from her face.

Across from them, Thor rolled his eyes. "The lady does not have your way with false words, brother," he called Sif on her lie. "She quickened to Hel's halls as urgently as I, and her brow was dark with thought the whole of our journey."

Loki smiled at the easy honesty that was always Thor and his heart upon his sleeve. "All the way to Hel's realm?" he questioned the rest of Thor's statement. "It seems that I have quite the tale to hear."

He would have only known bits and pieces from her dreams, from the conversations he heard around him while he was in his slumber. Sif gave a watery grin and said, "I did not care for that ending for you." Not in the least, but it was all she would say here and now – with her shield still raised and the simple relief in her eyes there only for Loki to see. "We made it so that, someday, you can write yourself a more fitting one."

She leaned in closer, and let her hand press against his own, just barely so as not to be seen. Loki's smile was soft upon her for a moment as he returned the touch – there and real and _alive_ next to her. She felt something thick gather in her throat, like a stone. It was hard to swallow around its burning weight.

Sif then felt a weariness encompass her – a heaviness from their journey and the even heavier weight of her emotions – a weight that the adrenaline and the battlesong that their trip to Hel had done much to quell. Now it settled about her shoulders like a mantle, holding her together like gravity.

But Loki was smiling softly at them all, and his eyes were open and _so very green_ and Sif thought only: _now I can rest_. Now, they all could.

.

.

If Frigg tried, she could not remember a time when her sons smiled more.

Her second son's sickbed had become a center of commotion, in the hours following Thor and Sif's return.

Loki had a steady parade of visitors, coming by to wish the second prince well and whole once more. The Warrior's Three had come to give their best to the sixth soul of their group, and Volstagg's eldest children had even drawn pictures in order to litter the prince's bedside with – the runes upon the parchment full of stick drawings and wishes for his quick recovery. Afterwards, a handful of Asgards mages, few as they were, passed through to give their best – even Amora took the time to stop by, Skurge in tow. The woman had brushed past Thor and lingered under the pretense of gifting an amulet enchanted for his healing. Loki wisely put the necklace aside, and Thor had lamented openly about the enchantress' heating spell that had singed his brow at the beginning of their quest. The jesting had the Three laughing openly, and Loki smiling slightly until Amora took her leave, her nose in the air and her long hair swishing angrily behind her. As always, the strongman was a shadow to her stride, whether she noticed his presence or not.

Now, Thor sat at his brother's right, close enough so that every time a gesture turned too grand, or he moved too quickly, he brushed his brother's arm with his own. Loki, who normally preferred his space and the keeping of it, let his brother those moments, his eyes glittering in bemusement every time Thor struck him. Sif was more circumspect than Thor, at Loki's left, close enough to share his shadow. Her dark hair was still coated in grime and dragon's blood, and her armor was stained with soot and scarred from flame, and still she did not leave. Her eyes shone with such a fondness, a fondness that had Frigg smiling to see as she called to mind her visions of the future alongside her mother's hopes deep within her chest. She saw their closeness – the way they curved into each other without thought, the way their forms were mirrored and their words finished where the other one left off - and knew such a peace at the sight. Perhaps, Frigg contemplated, if she played her cards very right, and prayed to the Mother enough, then she could even have the pleasure of grandchildren in the next few centuries. Children with mischievous eyes and too dark hair. Too long had her hall been absent the pitter patter of little feet, Frigg thought . . . and it would be a respite. A balm after the times that were to come.

But that was a dark thought. One that had no place in a room of healing. A room that was now filled with laughter and bright words and hope.

Thor was currently at the part of their tale where Mara was defeated, speaking of the wolf who slew his father in his dreams, and the snake who took up arms against him. From where she was standing by one of the ornate pillars that lined the circular room, her clasped hands turned tight as she thought of nine steps and pooling venom and _endings_. There was acid in her throat. Her heart gave a sick beat as she saw her son speak of how the end was to be lost – and maybe, one day – overcome, and she looked at her dark one and her golden one and thought _it will all rest on your shoulders_. Someday, she prayed to Yggdrasil eternal that they would all be forgiven for the paths that they had taken. For the weights they had placed on others.

"A snake as big as the world?" Loki was interrupting his brother then, drawing Frigg's ear. "Now you tell the tale as Volstagg would."

"Time to time, I do embellish for interest," Volstagg protested the slight. "I never tell a tale false, though!"

"Was it forty hobgoblins you encountered on the harbor in Almnir? Or was it a hundred and forty? I never could properly recall?" Loki's smile had a razor edge, his eyes sharp as they teased.

Volstagg twirled a snarled strand of his beard. "The number does seem fuzzy as time goes by," he admitted. "But that still doesn't make the tale anything less than true."

Loki snorted, and Thor made a large gesture, turning the attention of all back to him. "And yet, I tell no tale! Indeed, the serpent I faced was big enough to swallow the sea."

"He speaks truly," Sif spoke then, backing up her first. Her right hand she moved as animatedly as Thor, but her left hand was still, resting on the prince's sickbed. If Loki were to shift, the last finger on his right hand would brush her own. He did so often. Frigg watched the two, and found her thought of endings and far off wars fade in the face of a parent's contentment with their child's chosen one. "The serpent was large enough to swallow both sea and sky, and so large were his death wounds that Thor himself drowned in the beast's venom."

The tales continued, all voicing their outrage at such an ignoble end for their first. Thor was silent for a moment, no doubt thinking of cool hands and a voice filled with regret and the warm light that led him to his rest rather than razor venom and rank ichor. Frigg inhaled.

Soon enough, the story left Mara (Sif's hopes and Sif's dreams being underplayed by the warrior woman with a pink flush on her cheeks at such a sentiment open and bare before her comrades and friends), and entered the realm of Hel. Here Frigg leaned forward with great interest. She had met the half-alive queen only once in this time, but the memory had struck. She would have known the girl in any time, flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone, even when her lineage was born only from Frigg's heart, rather than her womb. She thought of Hel's green eyes and her sly smirk, and wondered if Sif had felt a similar attachment in the halls of Helheimr. It would have been hard not to, with the way Hel wielded her father's gift of seiðr as if it was a second skin to her.

Thor spoke of how the land of the dead was not any place he wished to visit again, telling all gathered of the uncanny silence of the souls, even as the air whispered with their songs. He spoke of a celestial and beautiful place, but empty of laughter and everything that made up light and life. He spoke of Death and her Hound, and spared no detail in explaining the odd play of life and decay that made up Hel's physical form - how even with the grotesque cloaking her, she was still a beautiful creature, formed as she was from the shadowed parts of the universe and her might.

"This is the part of the journey that you would have enjoyed the most, brother," Thor said next. "The land pulsed with seiðr – all of Niflheimr did, and I had not the senses within me to understand it the way you would have. I would have enjoyed you crossing your words with the queen – she had a razor tongue to match your own, and she wielded it as Sif here wields her glaive." Thor reached over to slap his second on the shoulder, his smile fond, even as the Three fell quiet at his words. Loki and his magicks were accepted by those closest to him, but only just. And so, to speak so passingly of such powerful things on the World Tree's boughs . . . It was easy to read the unease that loitered there, unease over such a kindredness with the uncanny and a wielding of what should have been the unwieldable. Frigg stood up straighter at the looks, daring the Three to utter a word with her eyes where she knew Loki healing and whole of heart before her. He was healing, and they would let him be, her eyes threatened. Wisely, they kept their silence.

"Your presence was missed in Helheimr. The Lady Hel would have drawn your interest even past what our own was," Sif said in agreement, and Loki turned away from Thor to look at her instead. There was a softness in his eyes for a moment before it was hidden, and Frigg felt an ache behind her bones. An old ache that had everything to do with time and its weight. The future and its sacrifices and the pains that were to come.

The torches beyond her gave a whisper. Frigg inhaled, and felt a familiar presence crawl about her skin.

When she looked around the room, searching, she found her lord husband standing by the pillar closest to the entrance of Eir's hall, his arms folded loosely about his chest as he leaned casually against the golden column. His single eye was shadowed as he listened to his son's story. His brow was creased from his thoughts, and his wide mouth was drawn into a thin line. Frigg tried for a moment to catch his eye, but his gaze was not upon her, but upon his second son. And there it stayed. She waited a heartbeat before looking back to Loki, as well.

"The dreams granted by the Hel-queen's lands are like nothing you have ever experienced before," Thor was still telling the tale. "More real than memory, more weighing than prophesy -"

" - all ghosts and goblins and ghouls?" Fandral interrupted with a laugh. "We shall have new fireside tales to scare your children with, my friend," and there, he elbowed Volstagg at the end of his words.

The hulking man narrowed a pointed gaze at the dandy. "Gelmr still has trouble sleeping at night thanks to your last tale. So, if you do not keep your tongue in line, I will remove it for you."

Fandral paled, but patted the other on the arm. "There, there now, I shall scare the child not again."

Volstagg grunted, but said not to the other's words.

"I dreamed not of ghouls," Thor said then, his words forming from the trail end of his laughter as he looked between his friends. When he spoke, his tone turned from merriment to something softer - his version of slyness, if the narrowing of his eyes spoke true. The twitch of his mouth teased as he turned to Sif. "But the lady here dreamed of motherhood – a more horrendous fate than all for a maiden who has taken up her vows for sword and shield rather than hearth and home!"

The reaction from her companions was immediate. Fandral whooped and whistled a catcall. Hogun's brows raised a fraction higher on his face – loquaciousness, for him. And Volstagg leaned over with such a grin on his expressive face. "Tell me, my lady, who is the lucky man?" Volstagg chuckled. "I must congratulate you both! For parenthood is a blessing that even the gates of Valhalla cannot compare to."

Sif rolled her eyes. "I am not pregnant as we speak, you fool," she hissed, but she wore her laughter in her eyes at their teasing. She shook her head, her hair a dark shadow about her that fluttered imperiously. "And," she added, her voice sly, her tone promising, "even if there was the possibility of my one day being so - a lady does not kiss and tell."

Fandral pouted. "A pity," but even still, his eyes were lit speculatively. She met his gaze boldly, daring him.

"The lady need not tell when she wishes not to," Hogun said, more to Fandral than anyone else. His voice was low, the shape of it grave. "Know that you have our support," he said to Sif, "if and when the time comes."

Frigg watched, near biting her tongue in bemusement as Loki raised a dark brow. "I must too congratulate the lady. Why have you not told us of the happy union, Sif?"

Sif's gaze withered, and were he not in Eir's own hall, Frigg believed that she would have struck him. But there was something soft behind the teasing in Loki's gaze, and Frigg closed her own eyes as she called her weavings of the future to mind – the vision in which her son held a crying babe, ancient lullabies on his lips as he took hold of death from the child's dreams so that she could pass a peaceful night. She saw Sif at the door of the nursery, such a smile on her face at the bond her husband had with her daughter. Frigg saw the way the tiny white hand curled about Loki's hold. The way the tired babe hiccuped and curled in deeper into her father's arms, exhausted from her cries. The child who would someday hold death and all of her secrets was nothing more than her parents pride and joy in those moments, and it would be those memories that Frigg prayed would lead them through the times to come.

"There is nothing to speak of," Sif said, her syllables bitten out between her teeth. "It was only a dream." The words were spoken with enough annoyance to convince the Three, but Thor shook his head in bemusement at his friend's words, seeing more than most would give him credit for. Loki too let his gaze linger upon her, and there was that one second of a half smile just for her before he turned back to Thor's tale.

"And then, the dragon," Thor continued with relish, turning the attention of all back to him. It was this part of the tale that had Frigg holding her breath. Her heart thundered and her fingers itched to weave, to see if prophesy had been changed for the better by what she held dearest to her.

The flames around her flickered as if in an exhale, and upon so, Frigg looked over to where Odin had last been standing. He had turned when Thor spoke of the dragon, his back to the smiling group as he made his way silently to the exit. She frowned, and when she turned again, she found Loki's eyes watching her, a weight in their depths as he looked from her to where Odin had been standing, a question in his eyes. Frigg clasped her hands before her, willing them to still as she inclined her head to her son and gave her most assuring smile. Loki nodded in return, and offered her a smile of his own – _I am alright, all is well_ – before turning back to his brother's tale.

And Frigg turned the way her husband had gone, that last image taken and tucked away for memory in her mind - that of Loki's smile and Thor's hand firm upon his brother's shoulder, as if needing the touch to affirm that his other was there, alive and well. It was that touch, that bond, that she trusted the fate of the realms too, and she did not give that trust lightly. Now, to see that that trust was shared . . .

Odin was already down the hall by the time she made her way out of Eir's level of the palace. Above her head, the large banners bearing her husband's seal were flapping in a silent breeze, and that same wind carried the caws of ravens to her. She followed the sound, and found that Odin had only stopped when he had reached one of the balconies that overlooked Asgard beyond. The eternal realm was just preparing for the night – the sky was stained the color of blood and the cosmos swirled with shades of gold and pink beyond. The violet night sky hung past them like a weight, waiting to descend. Frigg tilted her head up to catch the wind, blowing off of the sea beyond. The saltiness of the breeze was a balm to her, letting her breath come easier in her lungs. She stepped to the railing, standing next to her Odin, her hands held out to rest right next to his own.

She was silent, waiting for him to speak first.

"They succeeded in slaying the dragon," Odin said, his voice soft, lost in thought. His one eye tangled with the horizon, looking past what she could see, to the realms which waited beyond their own. "They succeeded in slaying Níðhöggr where their elders could not."

"They will succeed in many things, where we could not," Frigg said, no reproach in her voice, only a weariness . . . and a hope. "To them will be balance . . . balance, and a future that we could only do our best to set a foundation for."

"Perhaps," Odin said, his voice a weight.

"There is no _perhaps_ ," and when Frigg spoke, she spoke her words fiercely. Proudly; as if she were a beast with claws and flames. "Our sons – together – are the key to peace in these realms. They will be such a light after your reign, my husband, and today of all days you should know pride for having raised them so – for having set them upon this path."

"This is but one path they have walked today," Odin said. "But what of the other paths still awaiting their footsteps? The paths that end with Twilight and venom and flames? What of _that_ path?"

Frigg breathed in deep, the old argument a wound in her side. "I know not which path the future will bring," she said honestly, her words a stone in her throat as she admitted to what she feared most from the time to come. "The future holds no certainty – for the good or for the bad, but then I experience days like this one, and I know hope as a result. _Such a hope_."

When Odin sighed, his breath was drawn deep from his chest - deep from the parts of him that were scabbed over and scarred from memories of battle and the weight of ruling. It was a place in her husband that Frigg had spent the whole of their marriage trying to reach, and some days she felt as far away as the day when she had first pledged herself to him.

She could not see that well within him, but she could see when it was threatening to rise up and drown him. And so, she reached over, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her other hand she raised to cradle the side of his face, turning his single eyed gaze to her. "Let yourself hope," she said, her voice tender, her eyes warm. "They sense that . . . They crave your favor and your pride like the fields crave the rain. I can only say so much where your silence sits, and they _yearn_ , Odin – they _both_ yearn."

She could feel his breath against her skin, it quickened as she saw that old argument run in circles within his gaze. And oh, but how she _hated_ the twist of it. Prophesy and fate had led him to take Laufey's son from the ice all of those years ago, and prophesy and fate had been the same thing to hold Odin's affections at arms reach during the centuries that had passed. But still he loved, even if he did not wear that love openly. That love was his greatest fear – the fear that that love would someday be the weakness in his armor that would bring Asgard to her knees. But, withholding it . . . how could she make him see that the greatest of evils were caused by the greatest of pains? Balance, it was _balance_ that their realm needed – in this and all things.

"You cannot believe that I wished for the boy to fall," Odin said then, as if searching for his words.

"I do not," she said, speaking her truths. "But you would have let him, even if you did not wish it."

"Not for my own sake," he returned, his voice weary, his tone old – as ancient as the cosmos falling in beyond them. "But for this realm, I would have. I have taken vows, as a king before a father, and that balance is one I find as such a weight upon my mind." It was the first time he had said as much to her, she knew, finding a victory in the words. The words were such a small fraction of the fight they had faced – and would face for a long time to come, Frigg knew, but it was now voiced between them. It was acknowledged.

And from that point, Frigg could weave – she could spin and sew over seams that had fallen apart at their edges. The thread had not frayed beyond repair.

It was an old reflex to her – as second nature to her as breathing to step into her husband's arms when he offered his embrace. He smelled like worn leather and the sea beyond and Frigg inhaled deeply, instantly finding a peace settle within her aging bones. Her fingers hooked in the suede that covered his shoulders. Under her cheek, his heart thundered. Within her chest, her own heart beat a quick pace to match it, in sync after so many centuries together.

Time passed. How much, she knew not. And then, she whispered, "Someday, your sons will return to Yggdrasil her spring, know that Odin Borson . . . Know that, and know _hope_."

His arms tightened around her. Frigg leaned in to him, and knew a harbor in the storm. "And I do hope, milady. I do."

"We all do," she echoed, her voice alight with prophesy and pride – with confidence for the time to come.

And they stood there, the Allfather and his queen, watching the realm eternal until the night fell in around them.

.

.

Loki spent another three days time in Eir's halls before becoming restless with his confinement. The healer wished to keep the prince in her hold – for the spell that he had fallen from had been an unholy thing that had attacked the core of him, the core of him that was all magic and elemental ichor, and she did not take lightly the binding of that back together. Loki, though, had never been very good with too much time to sit and think, and on that third morning, when the healer had had all of her potions mixed and relabeled with the Trickster's hand (turning a poor guard with a fractured arm to a snail; and intensifying one of the pregnant Lady's mood swings rather than calming them – much to her husband's ire), Eir finally rolled her eyes, and told the prince rather unkindly to leave her hall in peace after making him promise to tell her if here was anything further amiss.

During that time, Sif had been slow to stray from his stride unless it was to rest – their journey to Helheimr and back and been exhausting, both physically and mentally, and she and Thor enjoyed the time of healing as much as Loki did. There was a peace that had descended over them in the wake of their latest quest, and it was a peace which she relished.

Those three days that Loki had spent with Eir, she and Thor had stayed by his side every night, before finally being shooed away from the prince's bedside in the high hours of the morning. She spent those nights alone, and tried to reorder herself to sleeping in her own bed after so many years of stealing away to his. She found the middle of the bed little to her liking, but at least when it was only her, she could steal the sheets and furs all for herself without hearing about it from a cross voice in the morning. It wasn't her fault, after all, that she slept as she warred, and Loki slept like the dead – still and unmoving.

And so, that forth night, when Loki was finally released, Sif sat on the edge of her own bed and waited restlessly as the twilight beyond her fell. She had her eyes slanted towards the horizon, watching as the fleeing suns painted Asgard golden and brilliant, the cool hand of night waiting just beyond to sooth the flaming gold over with violet shadows, the gauze work of stars and nebula gases above them more intricate than the greatest treasures a dwarfish smith could make with artificial means.

Above them, Mother Yggdrasil turned her boughs to the night, and Sif took up her hunt.

Beyond her room, the shadows had lengthened. She knew the shape of them well, for this was a path she had taken many a time. She slipped with a silent step through the halls, her feet quick and her heart alight - as if their relationship was still new in its intensity and this was one of the first times she had taken this journey. By now, the twists and the turns of the palace knew her as kindred; they bent to her as she slipped from Lady Gná's suite of rooms to the royal chambers, and one in particular . . .

When she entered, Loki's chambers were dark, lit only by a handful of torches on the wall, the warm flames glowing green around the edges in a telltale sign of Loki's magic. From the furthest part of the room, there were a tall line of curtains that led to the grand balconies beyond. Normally, they were drawn closed during the day – for Loki preferred to pour over his spellbooks and scrolls by torchlight, without the bustle of the palace beyond to distract him. Now, though, they were open, letting the glory of the cosmos at the onset of night spill in and cover everything.

The tumbling starlight from beyond fell across the common area of the room like an ocean wave as Sif picked her way though – passing the nook that Loki used as his study and the piles of books that layered both the floor and numerous bookshelves which had been arranged there. A dozen magical instruments and artifacts caught her gaze, vying for her attention as she looked past them. She picked up a candle that had been left lit on the desk, and used that to walk the darker path into the innermost rooms. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as beyond them the sea winds blew, carrying with them the scent of brine and stardust. The scent swirled with that of magic, book dust and ink, and she knew _home_ as she breathed in deep.

"I had hoped to find you resting," her voice chided when she found him – finally picking out the dark shape of him from the shadows. Her steps where whisper soft against the gilded floor. The candle in her hand was more a shadow than anything else, dim in comparison to the violet night beyond.

Before the fire pit on the one side of the room, Loki sat in a simple and cushioned chair – the one that normally presided over the mess of a work place he like to call his desk. He sat there instead of in one of the golden seats that had been assembled around the fire, grand and gleaming and gilded. His eyes were staring, unblinking into the embers that remained of what she imagined would have been a hearty blaze earlier in the evening. His fingers were steepled, pressed to the point of his chin as he stared ahead, lost in thought.

"I have had enough rest to last me for quite some time, milady," Loki said in return to her greeting, his eyes finding hers, like a thief stealing through a lock, before slipping away again. "I am not weary."

But he sounded so. Sif tilted her head as she sat the candle down, trying to deign what could be affecting him as such. She glanced about the room, searching the familiar shapes of the shadows and finding naught to catch her attention. Until, she looked to where Loki had been hiding a new shape in her line of sight.

Ah.

A grin curved onto her mouth when she saw the secret that Thor had been tiptoeing around as gracefully as a stampeding herd of bilgesnipe the past few days. He had been to and from Brokkr's forge many a time since their return, and when Sif had asked Heimdall as to Thor's journeys, the Gatekeeper had given no reply but for a shake of his head at the way the first son thought himself sly with his endeavors.

Before the second son of Asgard now stood a suit of armor, the gold of it newly minted, the freshly gilded lines a light in the shadowed room. She hooked her grin, letting its course run wide upon her face.

"You have finally settled upon a design," she said, her voice pleased, her eyes hungry and approving upon the plates and straps that were laid before her.

Loki snorted. "It was Thor's work," said he. "He came with this, just earlier." Just earlier, when the fire would have burned hot, and the setting suns would have been at the highest part of their fall.

"I knew he was up to something," Sif replied as to that, her voice fond. "He goes about subterfuge as a ram goes about his charge."

Finally, a ghost of a grin hooked upon Loki's mouth. "He was simple in his earnestness, it is true. And yet, I was honored by his attention." There was pleasure in the thought, Sif read between the lines. He spoke the truth as to his brother's intention of the gift.

. . . but as to the gift itself. Sif frowned. "Do you not like the design?" she asked, searching.

"No," Loki was quick to say. "That's not it at all. I like it very much, actually. Too much." And there his voice dipped as if struck with a dark thought. It sunk as a stone in a deep pool.

He stood as she came closer, pausing to touch her hand as she passed by him in order to stand before the suit of armor, her eyes curious upon its shape and detail. She smiled at him, even as she reached up to touch the metal as if it were something living. Tenderly, she traced the shape of entwined serpents that had been etched into the gauntlets, the thin golden lines swallowed by the curving and graceful edges of the plates. It was an elegant piece that Brokkr had produced, and Sif smiled openly at how handsome the final result was.

At the crown of the suit, still and waiting upon its stand, there was a helm, and there she understood the way Thor had walked around the whole of the day as if immensely pleased with himself. The helmet was golden, angled and set down as if to glare and challenge those smaller to step forth. And yet, that was not its claim to opposing eyes – rather, the center of attention upon the helm was a tall and very familiar set of horns, arrogant and dangerous and sweeping up and over as if to boast. It was a fitting place for such a thing to sit, Sif thought, pleased by Thor's decision – proud of his gift and the symbolism that stood behind it.

"I knew that Thor was much too pleased with himself these past two days," Sif said, amused. "He walked through the feasting halls tonight as a peacock would, with such a grin upon his face to match."

Loki snorted. "He was much pleased to grant me this," he said. "And I cannot begrudge him his pride – it is a handsome gift."

Sif turned her eyes away from the curving horns in order to catch Loki in her eye, wishing to interpret the look on his face, He was looking at the helm in such a way that confused Sif. He had yet to even touch it – to feel where the dwarfs had taken organic matter and gilded it with warm gold, the curve of them strong, the thrust of them haughty - a claim and a boast and a challenge to any who would gaze upon them. It was the mark of a strong animal, who knew how to hold his ground. Who fought with its back to what it protected and led with its head. How more fitting for Loki than Thor with his wings, as if ever ready to take flight and reign over cloud and sky and the very heavens themselves.

So she reached out, and ran a loving hand over the curve of the horns. The metal was warm under her touch. Already the steel sang with an elemental pulse, the soul of the beast Thor had slain seemingly still sitting upon the brow of the helm. There was magic in the sacrifice that Loki had gave. There was magic in the quest Thor had taken to restore to his second his breath. There was magic, and the knowledge that their deeds had not gone unnoticed by the Great Mother. They had been seen, and they now had a story whose repercussions would live ever on.

Still, Loki was silent, watching how white her single finger was against the metallic gleam of the helmet. His eyes were a weight, and she watched them carefully, deigning their shape in her mind.

She frowned, her jaw squared – and she would not have any of that, not after the peace that they had just recently achieved.

So, she took the helm from its pedestal, and with careful hands she reached up to place the cool metal upon her own brow. There was a thrill, deep in the twisting parts of her veins, at being the first to wear such a piece, and her grin was sharp like a hunting animal when she looked over to Loki so as to gauge his approval – her with her black hair, colored from his hand, and her gleaming horns, made golden from Thor's regard and Thor's favor for his second.

She made a face fit for battle, and wished that she had both shield and glaive to complete the image she presented. She could feel the call to arms march in her veins – silent since their battle against the dragon, and she felt anticipation for the morning hour and the time she intended to spend in the practice rings. It would be a glorious morning, already she knew.

"How do I look, my prince?" she asked as she knelt before him, as if she were a champion of the realm, prepared to take up arms for her lord and sovereign.

"You look suitably ridiculous," he said, the words soft. There was a fondness in his eyes, even past every dark thing she could see seeping and growing there. It was a fondness that had her smile turning fierce and her eyes bright, ever the warrior lady with her strong helm and glittering scales. She needed not hide herself as such before him, for that was what he so adored.

"They do not make me look fierce?" she protested, pique settling into her voice.

"They make you look like you are about to topple over," he countered, his mouth a wry line, hiding his burden behind the tucked sign of his humor.

Sif lifted the helm then, enough for her eyes to peek through. "Well, it was not made for my brow," she pointed out. "It was made for you and your endless skull – as thick as Thor's it would seem." She gave an exaggerated huff as she lifted the helm completely from her head. The black strands of her hair went with it for a moment, and she made a face at the pull.

"It is only because there is so much my mind has to hold," he countered with a haughty sniff, reaching over to help her before all of her hair went with the helm.

"I thought that it was your fondness of leading with your skull in a fight, like a battering ram," she flicked her finger against the right horn playfully as he took the helmet from her, holding the piece of armor for the first.

His fingers tightened, and Sif felt something in her throat leap at the way that the horns gleamed, bright in the dark at that moment – seiðr accepting seiðr and the bone beneath skin there all the much more stronger for it.

"Again, it would seem that you have me confused with my brother," Loki countered her words, his eyes hooded, his words hollow.

"Never that," she said, her voice a low whisper in her throat as she stepped closer to him, close enough to touch. He stood before her wearing black, drenched with the night's shadow, but she wished to see him gilded in that moment. Her mouth lined like an arrow from a bow, hungry as her eyes searched. "Put it on?" she bid him, pushing him back a step towards the armor. He went with her, ever the current underneath the wind of her, neither bending so much as moving together. "I wish to see it whole."

Loki was silent for a moment, his eyes considered. A heartbeat passed. Then another. "If the lady wishes," finally he said.

"She wishes," Sif said, tugging on him.

He already wore simple linens for the night, loose and black on his lean frame. The leathers were simple to put on next, all dark brown and black, like the soil after the rain. She helped him with the buckles and the zips, not because he needed her help, but because there was something thick in the air about the moment – as if she were helping a dragon to don his scales, or an eagle to crown himself with feathers rather than helping a man of flesh and bone gird himself for battle.

The undercoat of mail, the squares thick and gleaming, was next, made to be hidden on him where Thor wore his bright and open for all to see. The small squares were smooth under her hand as she found the clasps and did them tight. The plates of armor for his midsection looked to be heavy, but they were light when she held them up for him to shrug into. The plates angled like teeth crossing into each other, flaring like wings over his chest. The breastplate too gleamed, slanting up and over to V up over his shoulders and down his back again. She fastened it, and felt her heart beat slow and steady against her chest. The fresh gild of gold gleamed, it caught and swallowed any bit of light left in the room until he was like a small sun in the darkness, the focal point of all within.

She swallowed, and helped him with the plates at his shoulders and arms – these pieces would have been impossible for him to tie on his own without magicking them into place, and normally, this task would belong to a manservant. And yet, this process was now her great honor and right. As she slid the straps into place, the new leather still tough and slow to bend, she tried to shake off the heavy feeling that had settled over her – a feeling not unlike anticipation. In that moment, she felt as if she were some maiden dressing her knight for battle; a story-tale princess dressing her prince to face some far off foe. Once they were wed – if he ever got around to asking her – this would be her right and privilege before every battle, just as it would be his to assist her with her own armor. The latter would have been unique to them, but it was fitting - after all, it was not _he_ who had just marched against a dragon for a slumbering maid. That had been her role, instead.

Sif stepped away from him only after smoothing the great fall of his cape over his shoulders, the green fabric heavy and rich – a backdrop of color to make the gold shine even brighter. The green highlighted the shade of spring that was his eyes, a flare of unnatural light deep within his face, carrying that spark of seiðr that he never could quite extinguish.

And she let out a breath at the sight of him.

Almost immediately, she brushed her first thought away – normally, Asgard was quick to say how very much unlike a warring creature their second prince was. Loki, with his rolled sleeves and fingers stained with ink, and his eyes bright with spells rather than steel when he finally moved to stand with his brother in a fight. And yet, he looked like something out of Midgard's legends in that moment, something ancient and fierce and so very much past them all. Armor was his skin, steel his veins, and there was a battle in his eyes upon which side she did know to fight.

"It suits you," she found the words tripping off her tongue. For every fight he would rather avoid, he took to each one with more ease than he would ever realize, her thoughts continued to swirl, banking and building in her mind even when she could not find the words to push them through her mouth. He was chaos and trickery and unending twists and turns, this she knew better than most. The deceit and plotting of war became him. The uncertainty of battle and the chess match that generals played . . . It was as much in his veins as it was Thor's. As it was hers. They were of the same cloth, cut along different seams, and in her pulse she felt the call to arms thunder like a drum. She could taste copper on her tongue, she could feel her breath hitch as she thought of him with his spells set for flesh to tear and skin to render.

"You flatter me, my lady," he said, his voice shadow soft to match the night all about them.

"I speak true," Sif said, her words coming fierce on her tongue. Her eyes tangled upon him, unable to look away. Her pulse sped with the urge to march, but it was different than the need to war. Her body wanted movement rather than violence. Her fingers wished to touch, to find and explore all of the new places now worn upon him. She looked at him, and knew a hunger, and with her eyes she let him know her want.

He held her gaze for a moment, but rather than stepping closer to her, he turned, and took off his horned helmet. Carefully, he set the gilded metal down down the way one would a dark and foreign object. He then sat once again, as he had when she had first found him. He leaned forward, his head bowed, cradled in his hand as if it were too great a weight to carry upon his shoulders.

And Sif frowned, worry in her gaze. "Loki, what troubles you?" she asked her question plainly, hoping for the same in return. She knelt before him, trying to find his eyes with her own as she clasped his hands between hers.

She thought that he was going to turn in on himself again when she asked. He opened his mouth once. Then twice. But he did not turn away from her. Instead, he sighed, the sound of it the release of a great burden. "We all dreamed while upon the Mórrigan's moon," he said, his syllables slow and pronounced upon his tongue, as if he was afraid of the very shape of them. "Do you recall?"

"I cannot forget," Sif said, remembering back what seemed like a lifetime ago. She remembered herself silent, as if her mouth was sewn, and Asgard in flames all before her as her destroyer laughed and laughed and _laughed_.

There was such a shadow in Loki's eyes. Such an awful shadow. Sif felt something unnamed in her rise, and she refused to call it fear. "What did you see in Mara's pools?" she asked the question, remembering the dread wraith and her terrible visions. She remembered how, after awakening, Loki had looked at her with a dull cast to his eyes and had refused to tell her what fear Mara had burdened him with. She had vowed to find out later, she remembered. And now . . .

She steeled her courage. She made it absolute. "Loki, what did you see?" she asked again.

And he waited a heartbeat before giving his answer. "The end of the world," Loki whispered.

And Sif felt her blood run cold.

The long lines in his throat hitched. "I was . . . I was the harbinger of the end," he said on an exhale, as if revealing a great and terrible secret. "I . . . I burned Asgard in the Twilight. I called to the dragon his flames by kindling his hate. Death herself stood by my side with her Hound, and all of the denizens of her world answered my call. The wolves devoured the sun and moon and I rejoiced because it signaled the end. I gave to Surtr his fiery sword, and to Níðhöggr his hot breath . . . And, while doing so, I wore this helm. These horns."

Her mouth opened. It closed. Before her, Loki looked at her through too wide eyes, as if he were a prisoner awaiting sentence. He trusted her with this – trusted her to judge his worth, his faults and all of the thin lines about him that he himself found wanting. His hand in hers trembled, and out of reflex she tightened her grip.

She tried to imagine the horned man she saw in her dreams – she tried to imagine his laughing mouth and dead eyes with Loki's shape and face, and found that she could not. It was an image as foreign to her as night to day. She could not make sense of it in her mind.

"Mara showed to us our darkest fears, delivered as prophesy," Sif said slowly, choosing her words to fit a shape that would cease the pounding in her heart, the blazing beneath her bones. "She knew exactly where to strike to do the most harm. To cause the most pain."

"Trickster, Liarsmith and Silvertongue," Loki rattled off of the appellations in the way of one tired. So very tired. "I have such thoughts within me at times . . . times when I can see the world burn and wonder what the flames would look like if I fanned them higher. Could I . . . do I have it in me to cause such an end? Is that truly something I am capable of?"

And Sif straightened, her face creased in indignation. "Most certainly not," she said, hissing the words until they were drawn deep from her faith and her adoration both. "You love your realm, and you love your family. It was you who took the poison for Thor, uncaring of your own life. You would have died," and here her voice hitched, her words trapped. "You would have died so that your brother could live, and if given the same choice today it is one you would still make. Is that a man who can burn the whole of Yggdrasil to the ground?"

He stood then, as if unable to contain the restlessness inside of him. He paced before her, his one hand fisted before his mouth. "But it felt so real . . ." he whispered.

Sif felt her heart ache as she watched him. She sat for only a moment before standing as well. She shadowed his stride, intercepting him in order to block his way. She raised her hands to his chest, as if her touch alone could anchor him, and with her eyes she found his gaze, holding it boldly. "Every dream feels real while we dream it," she said. "But the dragon lies dead now. He has no breath to burn the Mother. It is a fate that will no longer come to be."

"And what of Surtr?" Loki returned. "Surtr, and Lady Death's army . . . they still wait for that day. And on that day . . ."

"On that day, the Twilight will be something that we can triumph over," Sif insisted. "Look at what we did this past day. We struck against prophesy and felled the unfellable. We ended what was fated to never be ended. Do you realize what that means?"

"That the Nornir will have to find a new wyrm to fit their prophesy?" Loki said, unkindly.

Her eyes narrowed. "That means that someday, prophesy is something we can strike against and see defeated. Nothing is written as absolute, and all is still in motion. Believe us to be stubborn – or insolent enough to rise against that day. All of us," she stressed the last three words, holding his gaze with her own. "Together."

He sighed, leaning forward to rest his forehead against her own. "I do not understand where you find your strength," he whispered, as if revealing a riddle that had long since puzzled him.

"I have much to inspire it," she smiled up at him.

Hesitantly, his lips started to curve. A smile, almost. But it did not reach his eyes. He carried such a sadness about him in that moment, as if he still slept even after they had awakened him. He was not yet whole before her, and she did not know how to fill in the edges that she could see fraying.

"Sometimes your thoughts dwell in such a dark place," she whispered, her eyes heavy. She had her right hand held on his golden chestplate, over where she knew his heart to be, though she could feel its beat not through the tempered steel. "I look at you, and I know that your thoughts are where I can not follow, mired in some dark abyss. I worry about what may happen if you lose yourself there, for it is a place I cannot follow."

"And yet, there is always a tether there for you," he answered smoothly, raising his left hand to hold it over her own. His fingers were long and cold, and she knew the very shape of them better than her own. "My thoughts may be a plague at times, but they are only thoughts – smoke and mist and of no consequence compared to what I have before me."

He spoke so, but what the tongue said the heart could be slow to believe. Either way, they were words he wished to hear as true. They were not lies on the wordsmith's tongue. The tips of her fingers were white, pressed flat against him. "Know that there are those who would journey to Hel and back for you, Loki. And they are those who would not march for a shadow." She needed him to know that. She needed him to understand that, and in that moment her need was a bright and urgent thing that made her lungs tight and her heart ache. He stood whole and hale before her, and yet, she felt like they were on an abyss all over again.

"Such sentiment, on the lips of the Lady Sif," his words tried to tease, but his smile was tight. It reached not to his eyes.

"The lady loves," she said plainly, the words rarely spoken between them, but as always, when they left her tongue, she felt her lungs fill. The feeling was akin to falling, like the rush she got from flight and fight and bold and daring things. Yet, more than the sharp thrill of those ventures, this rise in her veins was full; it warmed and fed and watered until her heart felt as if nothing could ever do it wrong again. "And she would not see the worth of what she values most tarnished, even by that vessel."

He was giving her such a look then, the look that said he was trying to tear her thoughts apart through her eyes. He was trying to probe and sift and make right in his mind, and she tilted up her head and let him look unhindered. His fingers flexed over her own. His palm warmed from the heat of her. Under them, the metal binding him warmed as well.

This time, when she reached down to take his helm in hand again, he bent down so that she could place the metal atop his head with ease. He, already taller than her, was made towering with the sweeping horns, and with a smile still on her face she tugged playfully on the curve of the horns in order to keep him eye to eye with her. He bowed before her as bidden, and she stood on the tips of her toes in order to kiss him fully across the mouth. The kiss was sweet, simple and yearning and slow – an unwinding deep inside of her as much as it was an exhale for him.

The armor over him was thick, the leathers and the steel barring the whole of him from her. She couldn't feel the heat of his skin or the shape of his body, but it was a path she knew without touch enough to trace over familiar lines. She felt steel and leather bend before her as he knotted one hand in her hair and placed another high on her back. She felt his hand trace down the path her spine took, dipping in and out of the shape of her. Her sleeping tunic was thin, and he could feel all – tell all where she could only guess and trace a war path with her fingers. Slowly, she smoothed her hands down over the horns – felt him shudder against him, and knew a smirk against his lips as she read the tell tale sign from him when his breath hitched against her. The dwarfish smiths had done their work well, binding the spells of one to the other, she thought as her hands left the back of his helm in order to twist in the trailing ends of his hair, thick beneath the edge of gold. It was information to keep for later.

When she pulled away, he rested his forehead against her brow, and the press of steel against her skin was not unpleasant. She pressed against him, feeling the soft parts of her body find a shield and strength in the gilded parts of his.

"Will you come with me to the practice rings in the morn?" she took the moment to ask then, enjoying the way his pale eyes had darkened on his face, how they focused completely upon her. "Hrodgæir will be in attendance, and he has a truly spectacular blackened eye that has not yet healed. I wish for you to praise me for my handiwork." She tugged on him as she spoke, leading him backwards. He followed, as he always did.

He bent his head, the great horns on his brow towering. "As my lady bids me, I shall do," he said, his voice warm, his eyes a flare of green light bright enough to match the dance of the stars beyond.

"Then, so you are bidden," Sif raised her head imperiously, but she could not keep her smile from her face.

She turned into him again, and this time the kiss between them was needy, fit to consume. She curved into the hollow his armor made, as if she too were steel enough to latch over his heart; gold enough to protect the tender places of him until he was whole. The elegant candlelight on the walls flickered in time to Loki's breathing, throwing their shadows into sharp relief behind them, stretching further and further still with every step they took. As they did in her vision, the horned man's shadow mirrored her own. The shades meshed and formed until they were as one being - but this time there was no fear to be found in the sight. No rage or great pain at the thought of the time to come.

Instead, she knew only hope – such a hope, fierce and bright enough to envelop her bones like new skin – a hope for their future and every other. There was no longer any fear to know from the time that was yet to be. Instead, she closed her eyes as she wound against him, and thought only: _let it come_.

They were ready to face it.


End file.
